An end
by shadowfire
Summary: Sam and Dean thought the journey ended after they found and destroyed their mother's killer. What they didn't expect that it would bring a whole new host of problems, problems a bit more human
1. Water's Edge

**An End  
**(or maybe just another beginning)

_Drip _

_Drip_

Sam felt the warm liquid splatter on his cheek, run down the curve of his jawbone, and halt somewhere between the juncture of his shoulder and neck. His mind registered the warmth and instantly, his muscles had tensed and the adrenaline surged through his veins, preparing him for a fight before he had even fully woke up.

He laid there, eyes closed, trying to figure out why his body thought he was in danger. His shoulder felt cold from the cool breeze that was running through the room from the fan. It felt wet, and it dawned on him why he was in fight mode. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, praying that he wouldn't see another loved one attached to his ceiling.

_Drip_

It was only water that hit his nose and he let out the breath of air he was holding in. It figured that the ceiling was leaking; their current home was a piece of crap. He kicked off his damp blankets, and slid out of his bed. He was too revved up to go back to sleep and he needed to deal with the leak. Padding his way out to the kitchen, he passed the living room. He paused, seeing the glow from the TV.

His father was holed on the couch, wrapped up in a hairy afghan, flipping through the channels, pausing every few seconds on a new info-commercial before continuing on to the next. He looked almost like a statue with his perfect posture and his failure to blink in the few minutes Sam observed him. The only thing that differed his father from a statue was the sunken wrinkles under his eyes from so many nights of not sleeping over the course of Sam's lifetime, and the grizzly beard that habituated the lower portion of his face. The beard was patchy; some places containing no hair, others a mixture of brown and silver hairs.

His father hadn't been like that when they had been searching for their mother's killer. He had never been the type to worry about his appearance but he took enough pride in himself to be presentable so he could pass for a police officer or FBI agent. But since the time they had finally found their mother's killer and guaranteed it would never return to bother them again, their father had fallen further and further apart. He would sit in whatever room Dean or Sam wasn't occupying and just stare at the wall. He was a defeated man, Sam concluded. He was a man who had lost his purpose to live. And until he found his purpose to live, he would just sit there and wander in his thoughts.

Sam continued on to the kitchen, turning on the lamp over the table, and began opening cupboards in search for a pot that he could use to collect water. All the cupboards were empty except for some mold in the corners. He turned to the sink. Sure enough, there were dishes in there but nothing big enough to hold a substantial quantity of water. Grumbling to himself, he went to the refrigerator, the only other place he could think that the pots would be.

It was a jackpot. He saw all three of the big pots in there, covered shoddily in either plastic wrap or aluminum foil. For a second, he wondered why all three of them had ended up in the refrigerator, until he peered into the contents of the saucepan. No one, except apparently him, had eaten the macaroni & cheese he had made three days ago. It was the same for the other two dishes, a stuffed turkey and gumbo. It made him angry to see the food he had worked so hard to prepare – because he was the only one who knew how to cook – not eaten by his family. He would have thought everything would be gone with three men living in a house, with nothing better to do then eat. But his anger subsided fairly quickly. There was a bigger problem to solve in the fact that they weren't eating. He kept the macaroni & cheese in the refrigerator and scraped the gumbo out of the bowl and into the garbage. As for the stuffed turkey, he threw it away, seeing that the meat where the skin had been peeled off, and had turned a sickly yellowish color. He rinsed both of the pots and scrapped off the remainder of the food with his fingernails, not having either soap or a sponge to scrub them with. He set the pot he wasn't planning to use in the drain and took the gumbo pot into his bedroom.

His covers were now completely drenched, the water no longer a dribble from the ceiling but a thin steady stream. He tore the sheets off the bed and pushed the mattress and bed frame out of the torrent's path before placing the pot underneath it. At the rate the water was filling the pot, he guessed he would have to empty the pot within a couple of hours. Hopefully, it would stop raining in the morning so the room could dry out and he could go up and fix the roof.

He gathered up his sheets and made the trudge down the basement stairs where the makeshift laundry room was. It always surprised him that their homes would be missing refrigerators or stoves, or in the case of one home, a toilet, but the first things that were bought were the washer and the dryer, and a full shelf worth of detergent, bleach, and other cleaning products that could remove stains. Sam guessed it had to do with the fact that both his dad and brother always returned from hunts bloody and they never had the money to just go out and buy new clothes. It was a necessity to make them appear normal, but nowadays it wasn't something they needed. No one had gone hunting in a few weeks and Sam intended for it to stay that way. He had spent his entire life holding out on the notion he could have a normal life in which he got married, had two kids, a dog, and worked in a respectable line of work. He intended to do that now and he wanted his family to have that same chance.

Shifting through the ten or so half-filled bottles of specially scented detergent, he settled upon the generic detergent and poured it onto his sheets that were wrapped around the pole in the center of the washer. He shut the lid and pulled out the knob to start the water running into the machine.

He dragged his body up the stairs and tried to think about where he could sleep, seeing that his bedroom was out of use. Their father occupied the living room's couch, the kitchen table was too cluttered, bathroom too stinky, and so he decided to possibly incur Dean's wrath and sleep on his floor. At least it had carpeting.

Dean had the door open just ajar and Sam slipped in silently. He could feel the shaggy fibers of the carpet between his toes, and using that to guide him through the pitch-black room, he waded around the dirty clothing strewn amongst the floor to a seemingly bare spot next to the wall.

It wasn't as bare as he had thought; he tripped over something and that was what saved him. As he tumbled forward, the knife only blew past his ear, hitting and sticking into the wall with a solid _thunk. _Sam looked up, crouched on the floor to see Dean sitting up straight in bed, another knife already in his hand to deal with the assailant.

"Dean, it's me," Sam whispered, climbing to his feet to better confront his wild-eyed brother.

"Oh. Thought you were Dad," Dean mumbled, placing the knife back under his pillow. Sam wasn't sure if he found that idea comforting or disturbing. "Why'ya here?

" I have a leak in my room. I need somewhere to sleep," Sam offered as his explanation.

"Couch?" Dean laid his head back on the pillow and turned over, puling the sheets around him. Sam had no idea how Dean had managed to sleep with covers, nevertheless without a fan in his room.

"Dad's out there."

"He don't bite."

Dean had a point and Sam had spent enough time with Dean to know when Dean wanted to be left alone. " Night."

He left the room, shutting the door behind him, and walked out to the living room. The TV had finally been turned off and the remote set on the floor, but now a lamp with a dying light bulb lit up the room. Sam expected to see his father reading but his father hadn't changed positions. He was still sitting there, doing nothing, wrapped up in his blanket despite the warmth and humidity that hung in the air.

He sat at the free end of the couch, and watching his father carefully to see if his father was even going to acknowledge him, put up the footrest so he could stretch out. His father didn't even look his way, just continued to stare at the black TV screen like it held all the answers in the world. Sam tried to remember the last time he saw his father doing something other then that. He believed it started after they vanquished the sprit that killed their mother and it all clicked in his mind.

"Dad."

John did not turn his head.

"Dad," Sam hissed again.

John's eyes shifted to look at him but nothing else moved. They were blood-shot, fairly painful looking.

"Go to sleep."

It was a friendly suggestion from a worried son but John didn't take it that way and he rotated his entire body to completely face Sam. " Is that an order from the college boy?"

The beer ran off his breath, and Sam wondered when he had missed the fact his father had started up drinking again. "I'm worried about you. You haven't slept in days and you aren't looking too hot. Are you feeling alright?"

"So nice of you to be concerned about your old man. Weren't all that much when you were abandoning your family…" he spat out and Sam winced. He tried to not allow the comments to bother him. He knew his father had been a mean drunk before their mother had straightened him out.

"I don't want to argue with you."

"Good, don't. Go to sleep."

Sam decided it was easiest to obey and he closed his eyes. But no matter how long he lay there, eyes closed, body begging for sleep, he couldn't fall asleep, kept up by the soft cries that erupted out of his father every once in awhile. He longed to tell his father that it was okay and offer some comfort, but John wouldn't appreciate it and deny it had ever happened. So Sam let his father cry next to him, letting him express the thoughts and feelings he never allowed himself to feel.

* * *

_

* * *

_

End Chapter 1: Water's Edge

* * *

_I can't go down to the water's edge  
I didn't do it... I saw who did it  
Don't go down to the water's edge  
they did it once and they can do it again_


	2. Storm

**An end  
**(or maybe just another beginning)

"I think Dad's depressed."

"That's wonderful, Sammy. Hurry it up." was Dean's nonchalant response.

Sam glared and took the putty knife from Dean's outstretched hands, and slapped the gunky black substance onto the rooftop. He handed it back to Dean who dipped it in the gallon bucket and scooped more out.

"You're nuts, you know." Sam gave him a confused look, taking the knife back. " Only you would decide to patch the roof in the rain."

"The weather didn't look much better for the rest of the week," Sam explained, applying the last of the shingle glue to the roof. He stood up, tossing the putty knife and the empty bucket off the roof, and looked over to Dean who was sitting next to the gutters, head thrown back to let the rain hit his face. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to get that shit out of my hair."

Sam sighed and walked over to Dean to get a closer look. The longer hairs in the front were coated in the tarrish material and were stuck to Dean's forehead. Sam bit his lip to keep from laughing.

" It's not going to come off with water. You need paint thinner."

Dean growled in annoyance and followed Sam down the ladder and into the house.

"Stay put and don't touch anything. I'm going to try to find some," Sam told him the minute they got inside, chucked off his boots, and went towards the bathroom. Dean chuckled at the trail of water his brother made from his dripping mop of hair and he sighed, leaning against the door. He was finding it difficult to not touch anything. The warm air of the house was drying his wet clothes making his body cold. It didn't help that his wet shirt was attached to him like a second skin and it made him really want to itch or just pull the fabric away. But he took Sam's advice, taking a glance every once in awhile at his blackened hands to remind him to obey his brother.

"I found something," yelled Sam from somewhere in the house, Dean's suspicion being the garage. " Come here."

Dean straightened up and took the walk down the hallway to the garage, turning the doorknob with his elbow and kicking the bottom of the door to keep it open long for him to get in. Sam was standing in the corner, swinging a can back and forth.

"No. You're not using gasoline to take it off," Dean protested as Sam unscrewed the lid.

"We don't have paint thinner or bug repellant," Sam commented, pouring a bit into the curve of his hand. The strong scent hit Dean's nostrils and he coughed. "I thought you liked the smell of it."

"I do. Just…"

"Just what?" Sam rubbed the gasoline into his forearms with an old shirt.

Dean mumbled something under his breath.

Sam rolled his eyes. " What is it, Dean?"

"I already smell like asphalt." Dean crossed his arms. " I don't want to smell even more like a scumbag."

"How does smelling like gasoline and asphalt make you a scumbag?" Sam questioned.

"It just does," was his indigent response. Sam made the motion of tipping the bottle and with a groan, Dean held out his hands and Sam poured the gasoline over them.

"Couldn't you just take a shower?"

Dean finished rubbing his hands together. " Can't."

"Why not?" Sam poured some of the gasoline in his hand and grabbed the blackened chunks of Dean's hair, running his hand through it to loosen up the dried cement.

"Dad forgot to pay the water bill."

Sam's hand stopped moving and it dropped to his side. " You're joking."

"Sorry I'm not."

"Fuck!"

"Sammy, it's not nice to swear," Dean mock-scolded. Sam scowled at him, screwing the top back onto the gasoline. "Anyway, it's not a big deal."

"Why?"

Dean motioned with his head to the window, where the rain was streaking down it. " We can just clean off out there."

"And we'll wash our clothes out there and every time you want a drink of water, you'll get outside and stick out your tongue. Real smart, Dean."

Dean shrugged. " We could boil the water."

"The water and electricity are on the same bill."

It was one of those moments where Dean couldn't decide if it was pride he felt at his brother's intellect or aggravation that his brother was right again, thus one upping him.

Dean raised his hands above his head and pulled off his wet t-shirt. " So why are the lights still on, then?"

As if tempting fate, the light flickered out. He could see his brother smirking and he growled, unzipping his pants, and let them fall the ground so he could step out of them.

"I'm going to leave them here to dry," he explained, setting them on the hood of the Impala. Self-consciously hoisting his boxers further up on his hips, he walked out of the garage, shutting the door behind him, and walked to his bedroom to get some dry clothes.

He passed the knife he had thrown into the wall the previous night and he pulled it out, depositing it on the top of his dresser. He grabbed the t-shirt that was sticking out of one of the closed drawers and one of the seemingly clean pairs of jeans that littered his floor, and threw them on. He slipped his sneakers on, and looked for his bottle of cologne. It was lying conveniently on the dresser and he sprayed himself down to masquerade how bad he smelled.

He heard a knock on his door and without receiving an answer, Sam walked into his room, taking a seat on the bed.

"You like to preen a lot," Sam commented as Dean moved on to brushing his hair, trying to find something he could do with the limp greasy strands in the front, which were just flopping around.

"Some of us don't look good doing the lost puppy look," Dean shot back, finally settling on combing all his hair straight back to disguise the strands. He turned away from the mirror and towards Sam. " What do you want?"

"Dad isn't going to be going back to work anytime soon, Dean. We're the ones who are going to have to pay the bills."

Dean looked at his brother warily. " Dad is fine to work. We'll just tell him to get off the couch and go find a job. There's always openings at that shoe factory I've heard."

"You're not listening to me, Dean. Dad's…"

"Depressed?" Dean interrupted. " Why do you think that? He looks healthy to me."

Sam sighed. " Depression isn't about being unhealthy physically. It's about always being sad."

"I knew that," Dean interjected quickly, giving Sam the impression that Dean was feeling stupid for not knowing what depression was. " What does it have to do with him not being able to work?"

"He can still work, I never said he couldn't, but trying to get him to do anything is nearly impossible. He sits around all day, moping about. He doesn't eat, rarely sleeps, and…I…uh… found him crying last night."

Dean raised an eyebrow. " Why would he do that?"

"I think he misses mom."

Dean sat down on the bed next to Sam. " We all do but why would now be any different then last year, or the year before that? He should be happy now. The demon's dead, no one else is going to die from her, and dad can go back to his normal pre-hunting days."

"That's his problem. He doesn't remember what those days were like. He feels like that since the journey is done, he's lost his purpose for living."

"What are you, a psychologist now? Do you know anything actually about that crap?" Dean tried to keep the anger out of his voice, but as always, it was pointless. It was too ingrained into him to defend his father's name and he was not capable of changing that even for Sam.

Sam's voice quieted. " …I took some classes in college."

"And that makes you Dr. Phil?" Dean yelled aggravated.

"No, it doesn't."

The passivity of Sam's answer made his anger disappear and was replaced with guilt. " I'm..."

"You don't need to apologize," Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "It's not wrong to question him."

"I know, but it feels too much I am insulting him."

"You're not. It's caring about him."

A comfortable silence filled the room as both boys ruminated over their conversion.

"So we get jobs?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. Also talk to Dad. He'll listen to you."

"Couldn't we just pay the bills with the credit cards again?"

"It's illegal."

"So? Never stopped us before," Dean stretched out his hand to grab his wallet out from under the corner of his mattress. He flipped the wallet open and pulled out the wad of credit cards stored in one of its many pockets. He shuffled through them, pulling out a shiny red one, with a huge cursive letter in the center. " We haven't used this one in awhile. I think it's under Haakan Lyckberg."

"What metal band is that from?"

"Some Japanese group. Saw the name, liked it. So what do you say? Can we just pay it off with this credit card?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It would look strange to see someone else paying with their credit card for our utility bills. They would start digging into our history and it is almost guaranteed that they will find about all the times we or dad have broken out of jail, or been accused of killing someone which I'd like to add that you, Dean, are legally dead in the state of Missouri and god knows, what other states, or the hundreds of times we have impersonated government officials which is now a federal crime. And…the card is tied to a postbox in New York City that doesn't exist. If it doesn't exist, we will have a problem and we can't just move out of the house and move to the next state like we always do now that Dad actually bought a house."

Dean stared at his brother blankly. " Alright…no credit cards. How is Dad paying for the mortgage without them?"

"He isn't. It's due sometime next week. We lose the house if it's not paid."

"That's great," Dean grumbled. " At least this house isn't much to lose."

"It's the house our mother grew up in."

"Seriously?"

Sam nodded.

Dean stood up. "Where's the newspaper?"

"We don't get one. Go down the street to the convenience store. There's a stand out there. Fifty cents."

"Be right back." Dean grabbed a ball-cap as he left the bedroom, placing it over his greasy hair.

* * *

He had never been the observant type, always focusing more on the larger picture then the tiny details that made it up. That was why he and Sam always made such a good team when they hunted. Sam noticed everything, fueling it into the ability to know who was genuine and who wasn't. It was Sam who avoided the slammer if they got caught and Sam who ended up coming up with the escape plans. But it was he, Dean, who did the dirty work that came with the job, killing the demons and rescuing Sam when his faith in the goodness of people overcame his reasoning. Because the truth was that all things were good and bad. Dean only saw one of the two. 

So when Sam finally told him about the inevitable foreclosure of the house, it hadn't really surprised him. If they didn't have enough money for water and electricity, the house was sure to go next. He personally didn't see why losing the house was a big deal. He knew it probably held some sentimental value to his father but it wasn't like they hadn't packed up and lived somewhere else. He remembered as a child moving about once a year to a new town and when he reached 15, living out of a suitcase at whatever motel they landed in for the night. That was probably why the news didn't bother him. He never got used to staying in one place for long. However if Sam wanted to keep the house, Dean would go out and earn some money. Sam, even for all his brains, wasn't going to make enough money in a week to pay the mortgage and a few back bills.

The convenience store was closed, but there were still papers in the bin, and he paid for it and stuck it under his t-shirt to keep it dry, though every part of him was soaking wet. He took off his baseball cap, seeing that there was no traffic and thus no passer-bys to laugh at his horrific looking hair, and let the water hit it, hoping it would get rid of the god-forsaken grease. He didn't know why it irritated him so much. Maybe he just liked to look like he had preened, as Sam put it.

There was a note on the yellow legal pad from Sam on the kitchen table when Dean got home, saying that he had went to the store to buy food that was already cooked and didn't need to be refrigerated. Dean interpreted that as meaning there would be a lot of beer, chips, and cookies. He could hardly wait.

After changing out of his wet clothes and setting them on the hood of the Impala because it was as good as any place for his clothes to dry, he laid out the newspaper on the table and began to search through the classifieds for the list of job openings.

The first job in the column was for a mechanic. Dean smiled. He had been fixing the Impala for years and knew he could fix about anything else. He read further and saw that they needed a CDL Class A license, whatever that was. Discouraged, he moved down to the next job. It was an account clerk and he skipped over it; it required a college degree. Another account clerk job and then a job for a taxi-driver; he thought it would be perfect until he saw he needed a clean license. His license or licenses, better put, were either fake, out-of-date, or loaded with fines from parking on city streets in the winter season.

He kept scanning through the columns and eventually found three jobs he could actually do. The only problem was that he rather die then perform them. They were all jobs at the factories in the surrounding area. They required no education, no licenses, and no background checks but Dean refused to do monotonous work. He lived to do work that involved doing, where every second of the day was different and fresh and exciting. He liked performing jobs that despite being dangerous, helped people.

He crumbled up the newspaper into a ball, and tossed it across the room into the garbage can. It didn't even hit the rim. He entertained his fantasy momentarily of being a basketball star.

The door slammed shut and Dean looked up from the garbage can. Sam was waddling in, carrying five or six plastic bags stuffed with groceries, and Dean reluctantly got up to help him lug in the bags. He unpacked the ones he carried in, piling the boxes of energy bars and the enormous bags of tortilla chips in the cabinet, and kept the bakery cupcakes out of the counter so he could later eat one.

"Did you go through the newspaper yet?" Sam asked, stuffing all the excess plastic bags into one.

"Yeah, wasn't qualified for any of them."

Sam chuckled and set the plastic bags on the counter. " I got a job."

"What! When did you have time to do that?"

"I was walking out of the grocery store and I heard these guys talking about the manager of the store quitting. So I approached them and asked them for the job. They said yes."

"You're too fucking lucky," Dean lamented. " Are you even know what it entails?"

"Nope."

"Do you even know anything about running a business?"

"No."

"Then how the fuck did you get the job?"

"I told them I went to Stanford."

Dean wanted to bang his head against the table in frustration. " So because you went to an Ivy League school, you can do anything."

"Stanford isn't technically the Ivy league."

"Close enough," Dean growled. He stood up and opened the plastic tin, pulling out a pink frosted cupcake. He peeled off its wrapper and bit into it. He closed his eyes as he chewed, using the sugary substance to ground him and help it to calm down. "Do you know anywhere else that is hiring?"

"The factories are always hiring. So are the fast-food places."

"I don't want a demeaning job."

Sam's eyes lit up. " You could work for me. We are in a need for cashiers and baggers."

"And one that is not masochistic."

Sam shrugged. " Then I don't know. You're going to find it hard to get a job without a college education or a high school diploma."

He knew that Sam didn't mean to do it but it felt like someone had shot him with rock salt, ironically something that Sam had done once. He felt the rage boil inside of him and bile rise in his throat. He felt the desire to hurt something and without replying, he left the room, jogging to the front door. As soon as his feet hit the pavement, he began running.

Sure, he wasn't super-educated like Sam but his brother didn't have to rub it in. It wasn't like he hadn't graduated high school. He had his GED. He knew about subjects that Sam would never know about i.e. business. Sam and his father weren't the ones who made sure there was enough money for Sam to go to college and that there was enough money for motel fees, gas for the car, and every broken bone and x-ray. It wasn't either of them who hacked up the schemes to get free money because no matter how many hours Dean put into the various jobs, it wasn't enough to pay for it all. He had skills. They were just more practical then academic.

He listened to the sound of his feet hitting the wet pavement, imaging it was something else that was getting beaten, and felt the water splash on his legs. The sky had cleared up and it was a hazy gray. All those element calmed him down as he rounded the curb to reach the end of the block where his house sat. He jogged up the front steps and let himself in.

"Do you feel better?" Sam asked from his perch on the armrest of the couch when Dean passed the living room to go to his own room.

"I do." He kept walking.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's just one of those harsh facts of life." Dean didn't look back to see his brother's response but he knew it would be a look of pity. No one was allowed to pity him. He shut the bedroom door behind him.

* * *

While Sam went to his job as manger at the local Price Chopper, Dean slunk around the house, putting new panes of glass in the broken windows and cleaned every thing he could find that was dirty such as the brown streaks in the bathtub from rust, with bottled water, vinegar, baking soda, and rolls of paper towels. And although it made him feel very Susie Homemakerish, he viewed the now polished house with pride. 

He wasn't sure why he did it. He woke up the morning Sam went off for his first day on the job with a feeling of unworthiness, and he decided that to make himself feel better, he needed to throw himself into a project. Cleaning was the only thing he could think of.

It gave him time to observe his father. Although he wasn't some expert at psychology, like Sam pretended to be, he knew something was eating his father. His stare was glassy when Dean would bring him his lunch because John wouldn't eat otherwise. It was similar to right after their mother died. John had just sat there in the folding chair, gazing at the empty casket, while people conversed around him, the funeral done and everyone was allowed to be happy and merry again. Dean remembered he had gone up to his father and had tugged at his father's hand to get his attention. His father finally looked up at him and it was as if his dead eyes had been reborn, lit by a fire. He remembered his father saying, "We'll get her back." Dean knew at that moment that his father was again capable of taking care of him and Sam. He knew for certain that their lives had changed.

Dean tried to stay close to his father in case he wanted to talk. He would purposely save things to do in each room so he could go in when his father was in there. His father would always ignore him and when Dean tried to engage him in conversation, John would use the fewest words he could, sticking to monosyllable answers. It pissed Dean off but he knew it was his own fault that his father could just keep remaining silent. He was too scared to just come out and ask his father what was wrong or even talk to him about anything that didn't involve hustling, hunting, or other quasi-legal stunts.

Despite it being near the end of summer, John was pale and sickly looking, not helped by a lack of rest and nourishment, so Dean decided it would be a good idea to get his father outside. He wasn't sure which of the sixty odd reasons he gave to John to leave the house convinced him, but Dean drove him to the local park. He thought it would be scenic enough that his father could just sit on the park bench and do whatever he did when he stared into space, and Dean could sit next to him and be jealous of all the little kids swinging, pushed by their mothers.

He really did spent a lot of time being jealous, he realized, as he closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his eyelids. It was something he needed to work on now that there was nothing holding him back from having the things he wanted in life. Maybe he'd go to college and get so drunk at frat parties that he couldn't remember his own name. Maybe he would find a nice girl that he could settle down with, not someone who was whore pretty or someone he only was interested in because they knew something he wanted to know. And then he would have kids, a little girl and a little boy. He wanted a boy so he could teach him football and how rewarding it felt to create something with your bare hands and a little girl so he would always have someone who thought he was Superman and could do no wrong.

"That brat over there looked just like you did when you were his age."

Dean's eyes shot open and he followed his father's pointed finger. A kid was trying to move the merry go-around by himself, trying to get it to spin around faster, but it would only go as fast as he could run. His mouth was in a determined frown as his pudgy legs kept running around in the circle, trying to get it moving faster. He was no older then six or seven and Dean looked closer at the merry-go-round to see what he was pushing. There was a toddler sitting in the center, mouth open, cheering as he was spun around. Dean smiled.

"The babe looks like Sammy," he added.

John nodded. "You've taken real good care of him."

Dean didn't know if he should thank his father for the compliment. So he didn't.

"Sometimes…I wish I was a better father to you and Sam, Sam especially. Sam isn't as strong as you are. He was never able to understand why I had to do the things I had to do."

"You did the best you could," Dean reassured him.

"Did I? I abandoned both of you. I left you to care for him for weeks on end. You don't do that to a seven year old. I'm...I was…"

Dean knew where the sentence was going and he interrupted him before he could finish it. " You're not a bad father."

"But I was. Sam…Sam hates me. I look at him and he looks at me with such loathing. Oh god…" his father's voice broke and for a second, Dean didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to deal with a crying dad.

"He doesn't hate you. He loves you so much. He's so worried about you right now like I am," Dean said quietly.

John nodded, inhaling and exhaling slowly, trying to regain his composure. "I'm sorry I worry you both."

"It's okay. We understand you have shit to work through. It's fine."

"No, it's not. I should be providing for you. I shouldn't be making Sam go out and get a job because I can't pay the bills." Dean wanted to say that was always what his father made him do, but he knew it wasn't time to bring up his issues with his father. He took a deep breath. " Dad, we're old enough to help you out. Get yourself back to normal and then you can worry about doing your fatherly duties then."

The sun moved behind one of the clouds and Dean mourned the loss of the sun on his face. From the looks of it, his father was missing it too. The sky was getting cloudy and the air seemed heavy with the scent of rain. " Do you want to get going?"

John nodded and he climbed lethargically to his feet, knees not bending and straightening up as quickly as they used to, Dean noticed. Their father was getting older. It was the first time he had ever noticed that.

"Sometimes I wonder…"

Dean waited for the end of the sentence but it never came. His father walked past him and up the hill to the parking lot. Dean followed like he always did.

* * *

The first week of Sam's new job rolled to a close and Sam was never so relieved. It wasn't that the job was hard or that he didn't know how to run a business; to his relief, all the classes he took to get his bachelors in pre-law had adequately prepared him for business law and everything else was common sense. His problem with the job that it was boring and he didn't feel like he deserved the amount of money he was earning. He got $25 an hour just to supervise the workers and answer complaints. There was the occasional signings of papers and negotiations with different companies to find the best deal on the transport of food to their store but overall it was too easy. He would peer out the window that sat in the corner of his office that overlooked the cashier lines and he'd see men and women frantically bagging groceries and scanning purchases, all with a forced smile, as they dealt with crying babies and people who only wrote checks to pay for their purchases. They deserved to earn the money that he did for doing nothing. So after his first day there, and after having a sufficient guilt trip, he raised all the worker's paycheck by a dollar. He became very popular after that. 

The front door was open, waving in the wind, when he returned home at ten. He had to run to the local college library so he could send out a fax to his boss, the regional supervisor for the chain of grocery stores, which detailed the financial happenings of the store. He didn't think anything of the door. It always had to be slammed fairly hard for it to stick and most likely, it had just remained open since the last time Dean left the house.

He shut the door behind him, and groped blindly around in the dark until he found the flashlight that was stashed on the floor. He flicked it on and wandered down the hall to his bedroom. The air was sticky and the room felt like a sauna despite all the windows being cracked open to get the air circulating. He couldn't wait until tomorrow when the banks would open and he could cash his first check, and finally get the electricity back on so the fans would work. He stripped down to his boxers and lay atop of the sheets, giving into his exhaustion.

_Dark sky.  
__No stars or moon. _

_All light passing by far away, like from the headlights of a car. _

_Down a hill,  
__Freshly mowed lawn in rows, dots separating them,  
__Dots become gravestones. _

_Man kneels next to one, bent over._

_Pieces of amber glass next to him, paper attached to bigger pieces, strewn around the limp body. _

_Red everywhere, _

_Life leaking out of him…_

Sam woke to hear himself screaming and frantic knocking on his door. He rolled out of bed and unlocked his door, and jumped out of the way when Dean barreled in, pointing the gun in every direction.

"Where's the demon?"

"No demon. Just a bad dream…I think." Sam grabbed the closest item of clothing on the floor and used it to wipe the sweat off him.

"Have you been having visions lately?" Dean asked, taking a seat on the bed.

"Not recently but…"

"You think it was a vision," Dean finished. "What happened in it?"

"It's probably not a big deal. It looked like some drunk guy killed himself."

"Then why would you have it if it wasn't important?"

Sam pondered that. " Do you want to check it out?"

"Sure. Give me a minute to get some clothes on and get some caffeine." Dean left the room and Sam got dressed. He didn't even look to see what he was putting on. He just felt this urgency, like something really bad was happening. Grabbing his flashlight and turning it on, he ran down the hall and into the garage where Dean was already in the car, chugging cola. He opened the garage door and got into the car, where Dean promptly floored the gas, and they drove into town.

"We're looking for a graveyard," he told Dean, flipping through the maps they had of the town. " It looked like it is near somewhere that had a steady amount of traffic."

"Point me."

"Go left on Seneca and drive up the hill. You want the 3rd right."

They rolled in the graveyard three minutes later and they drove through the rows, looking for activity. It was dead.

"You sure this wasn't just a dream?" Dean asked as they pulled back onto the road.

"Yeah. Sure. Get back onto Main Street and go to the end of it where it runs into River. There's a small plot of land there with grave stones."

"Yes, sir."

The small plot turned out to be a field of gravestones of Civil War veterans behind a deserted office building and it was the only other graveyard in the town. Sam didn't want to give up the search but there was nowhere else to look and Dean's eyelids were slowly drooping as he drove them back home. He probably could have just made him and Dean switch seats, but he was tired as well. He chalked up the vision as a nightmare and they pulled the car into the garage.

He heard honking from down the street as he was pulling down the door to the garage and he looked up. Their street wasn't busy but the one next to them had cars whizzing through with no regard for the stop sign that stood there. Something clicked in his mind and he remembered the open door when he got home. He rushed up the stairs and opened the front door.

"Dean, is Dad in the house?" he yelled.

"Why wouldn't he be?" was the yelled answer.

"Can you check?"

He heard noises of someone stumbling around and then silence.

"Dean?"

"He's not here."

Sam swore under his breath and began running to the back of the house where the woods were.

"Where you going?" Dean yelled from somewhere behind him

Sam continued running blindly through the woods.

"Sam, stop. What's going on?"

Sam didn't stop running. " This house is our mother's childhood home. Maybe the graveyard I saw was like the family plot or where they burrowed the dead animals."

Sam felt prickers lodging themselves into his jeans and his feet stumbled over the branches, but still he didn't go for the flashlight that was in his back pocket. He didn't have time. He broke through the woods and saw the road, cars whizzing by. It looked exactly like his vision.

"There's…nothing…here," Dean panted. " Why would a pet cemetery be right by the road?"

"Maybe there were trees here when mom was a child," Sam answered, jogging alongside the road. He pinpointed the hill he saw and he ran down it, stopping at the bent barbed wire that divided it in half. He looked back up at the road, and seeing that the cars were going too fast to be able to identify him properly, he stepped over it.

He heard Dean cussing behind him as he jogged down the hill. He could see the brief outline of gravestones but little else.

"Dean, shine the flashlight down here," Sam yelled.

The light flashed on and though the beam was weak spread out over the large distance, it provided enough light for him to see the dark figure huddled against a grave near the front.

He approached the figure with increasing dread, noting the dark hair and the bulky frame. He kneeled down by the man and slowly set his fingers under his chin, lifting it up so he could see the face.

"Sam."

Sam didn't answer so Dean walked rest of the way down the hill to Sam's side.

"Sam, is it Dad?"

Sam didn't answer. He just tilted the head towards Dean.

It was.

* * *

_

* * *

_

_End Chapter 2_

* * *

_How long have I been in this storm?  
So overwhelmed by the oceans shapeless form.  
The water's getting harder to tread  
with these waves crashing over my head.  
I know you didn't bring me out here to drown,  
so why am I ten feet under and upside down.  
Barely surviving has become my purpose  
'cause I'm so used to living underneath the surface. _

If I could just see you, everything would be alright.


	3. Three Peaches

**An End  
**(or maybe just another beginning)

3:00 A.M. Saturday morning

Dean had gone through every Sports Illustrated magazine they kept on the coffee tables and had moved on to Good Housekeeping, all in an attempt to keep himself busy. He needed time to pass. He needed to keep his mind off the fact that it had been an hour and not doctors had emerged from the hallway to inform him what was going on with his father.

He wanted to move. He wanted to pace. Somehow pacing made him feel like he was doing something productive. But when he had started doing it when he just arrived, the old ladies who were with him in the waiting room kept scowling and throwing nasty looks at him. The receptionist told him to sit down; he was making them uncomfortable. He didn't care – he had no idea why they would even be awake at 3 a.m. – but he listened anyway and took a seat.

He hadn't got a good look at his father. He knew that his father was still alive when they brought him in because his chest was still barely rising, and that he was bleeding a lot from somewhere. He had been too preoccupied with getting him to the car and driving frantically to the emergency room to really look at him. It had also been too dark to see anything and by the time they got to the brightly lit hospital, he was already being wheeled away on a stretcher.

Dean peered at the clock across the room, 3:20. He groaned and answered the peeved-off look of the women next to him with a glare of his own. It had been an hour since they got there and Sam left with the car. It pissed him off that he didn't know what was going on. It pissed him off more then that they were even at the hospital. He had calmly suggested that they forgo the hospital and just bring their father back home and nurse him back to health. It wasn't like they hadn't done it before in much worse circumstances and the house was a good twenty minutes closer. But no, Sam, ever fond of institutions, told him that they had to go to the hospital. Even after he told Sam that he didn't know if Dad had health insurance and this could put them even further in debt, Sam started ragging on him and how he didn't care. And like the sucker he was, Dean went along with the guilt trip and here he was stuck in the waiting room, waiting for Sam to get back and tell him how much money they had just lost because of Sam's idiotic notions.

"Dean."

He looked up to see his brother standing there and he scooted over on the couch he was stretched out on. "Did you find it?"

"He has health insurance."

"And…" Dean knew there was a catch. He could see it in Sam's eyes. He looked scared. He seemed reluctant to talk.

"It's in his name."

"Fuck!"

Everyone who occupied the waiting room turned to look at Dean and he gave them a sheepish smile and a little wave to appease them before turning back to his brother.

"What's the problem with that?"

"Nothing that I know of yet. I just don't know what history is on his real name. I mean, if it was a fake name, it's more dangerous because it is fake but the person doesn't exist so it's harder for the crimes and misdeeds that occurred under that persona to catch up to you."

"Do they know who he is yet?" Sam asked.

"No. I just told them I was walking my dog through the graveyard and I saw a body lying there so I brought him in. Didn't tell who I was either." Dean's eyes darted around quickly to see if anyone was listening. The receptionist was on the phone and the old ladies were now preoccupied by their knitting. " We have to get to Dad before he talks to them and tell him to use his real name."

"Why wouldn't he use his real name?"

"Because his first instinct is to always lie."

Sam sighed. " Why does everything always have to be so complicated?"

"Didn't have to be if we just decided to take him home with us," Dean said, very pointedly.

"Then why didn't you, Dean, if it pisses you off so much that you're here. You were behind the wheel. You didn't have to do what I said," Sam exploded, his long fuse cut short by the stress of the night.

" I had to do what he said. It's…it's my responsibility to take care of you.  
"Taking responsibility of someone doesn't mean you do whatever they fuckin say!"

"Sam, quiet down. They're staring at us," Dean hissed.

"I don't fuckin' care." Dean was reminded of an insolent child who had just learned his swear words and spent every other word trying to drop them in. He would have found it funny if he weren't the one arguing with Sam.

"Sam. I know you are stressed out. You need to calm down," Dean whispered in the most soothing voice he could muster. " Take a deep breath."

Sam glared at him but followed his advice. The blood that had flown into his face slowly parted leaving his skin pale and he stopped clenching his jaw. Dean almost thought the anger was gone until Sam quietly responded, " I saved his life by bringing him here. You can thank me when he's fine."

Dean laughed as Sam stood up, fishing for money in his jeans pocket. " I wasn't the one who was just knelt there on the ground, watching him bleed to death, doing nothing about it."

"Some of us aren't good at being emotionally cold bastards."

Dean smiled. " Ah…well, it gets the job done."

Sam stormed away from him. Dean just watched him go.

* * *

* * *

4:00 A.M. Saturday morning

Sam slurped at his ramen noodles, which were loosely wrapped around the plastic spoon. The noise made Dean want to scream but he gritted his teeth and bared it. They hadn't talked since their little spat and Dean was comfortable with the silence. The silence was their time to get over their issues with each other.

He heard the squeak of sneakers and the steady march of someone coming closer to them. It had to be a doctor and he prayed it was theirs. He needed to know. Two hours was long enough for being in suspense.

A nurse appeared from around the corner, a graying woman somewhere in her 50s, carrying a clipboard. She glanced around the waiting room before walking over to them. Dean and Sam stood.

"Are you the boy who brought that man in?" she asked.

Dean nodded.

"How is he doing?" Sam asked.

"He'll pull through."

Sam blinked. Dean took the opposite tactic " We didn't wait two hours for you to tell us he'll live. What's wrong with him?" he asked angrily.

The nurse didn't even bat an eye at Dean's waving hands and aggressive step forward. " He lost a lot of blood from the gash in his stomach. Most likely, that and being drunk made him pass out and he hit his head on something and got a concussion."

"Will he be okay?" Dean asked.

The nurse nodded. Dean exhaled in relief.

"What did the gash on his stomach look like?" Sam asked.

"Sam! Don't interrogate the poor lady like that."

"I'm not. I'm just curious, that's all," he said to Dean and he turned to the nurse. " Miss, if you could tell me, it'd be really helpful."

"Hmm…it's like nothing I never seen before, and I've been here for thirty-some years. It was like something tried to dig out his intestines."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Now if you excuse me, I have to go to my next patient." Sam watched her go out of sight and turned to Dean to find that his brother was no longer there. He felt a brush of cold air and he looked up to see the waiting room door slamming shut. He had no idea what hair-brained idea his brother had come up with, and he jogged to the door, letting himself out to the parking lot.

Dean was leaning against the hood of the Impala, frantically flipping through pages of their father's journal. Sam tapped on the car to get his brother's attention but Dean was too involved to notice.

"Dean, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Dean growled, not looking up from the binder.

"Looking for an entry that includes something about a certain demon."

"Bingo. I remember an entry talking about a demon that tries to disembowel its prey. Help me look," Dean slid all the spare pieces of paper that were sticking out of the journal to Sam, and kept skimming through the hundreds of entries.

"Dean…"

"Look at the papers, Sammy. I need your help."

"Dean."

Dean ignored him, flipping through more pages.

"Dean…Dean!"

The yelling got Dean's attention and he looked up.

"Dean…it wasn't a demon that hurt Dad."

Dean paused and gently shut the book. " Then what did this to him, Sam?" His voice was so tired and resigned.

"He did it to himself."

Dean's expression changed so quickly, from weariness to the righteous anger that emerged in him every time he ever hunted a demon. " How dare you even think that our father would try to kill himself?" He was still leaning on the car but he was oddly pressed into it, like some creature ready to pounce and kill something. Sam took a step back from the car.

"Why is it wrong to think that, Dean? Is it because it will wreck your notion of his infallibility?"

Dean's eyes were glinting in the early morning light and he was smiling. Sam didn't think Dean ever knew he was smiling. It was like Dean had become a darker version of himself. Dean began laughing and Sam took another step backward as Dean raised himself off the hood of the car. Another step when Dean slunk around the front of the car, eyes baring right into his.

Sam reached his hand into his back pocket where he kept a simple hunting knife. He would need it if Dean had finally snapped. It was the work they did; killing demons made the line that divided violence for selfish reasons and violence for justice nonexistent. After time, anyone who didn't agree with your beliefs was someone who could be hunted. He had seen it with his father. It had been Dean who had stopped their father and he who was left with the responsibility of bandaging the wounds and setting the broken leg.

"Oh, I know he's not perfect. He's never been. But he lives for being alive. He would never just throw away something that is so precious to him," Dean kept stalking closer to him, and Sam kept stepping backwards, with every step bringing the knife closer to his front and at the ready.

"Life is no longer precious if there is no purpose to live."

"There doesn't need to be a reason to live. The only reason you need is because we have no other choice." Dean's eyes were wild, his face twisted in something akin to pain.

"There's always another choice and that's the one he chose, death." Sam's back hit the wall and Dean took the last step forward, closing the distance between them, pinning the hand with the knife against the wall so it couldn't be used.

"Dad would never just kill himself, " Dean screamed at him. " He would never just abandon…" Something broke in Dean and suddenly he was crying and Sam was trying to awkwardly hug him and support his weight.

" If he wanted to die, he would have succeeded," he whispered miserably.

Sam didn't say anything. He just offered Dean the comfort that Dean always denied himself. He knew that Dean wasn't crying for their father but for all the times he refused to cry, for all the people he couldn't save and for the people whose lives were destroyed because of his actions. It was for all the regrets he had in his life and all the times he wished things could have done differently.

Finally, with a long sniffle, Dean got himself together enough to back away and began walking back to the hospital.

"This never happened," he yelled from over his shoulder.

"Agreed."

* * *

* * *

8:00 A.M. Saturday Morning

The scent of iodine in the air was the first thing he registered when he came back into consciousness. It made him think of the time he got in a scuffle with this nasty pixie that kept stealing the neighborhood cats, and it bit through his finger. He was only seven at the time and it was his first shot at fighting demons. He remembered being terrified of going to the doctor's for it because he knew it would have to be disinfected and the peroxide they used at home hurt a lot and the finger wound was a lot bigger and nastier then the ones he usually received. He remembered feeling relieved when he found he only had to put his finger in the liquid for it to lose all its germs, and then disgusted when he discovered the yellow tint it gave to his skin wouldn't be coming off for a few days.

He wasn't sure when he went asleep, most likely right after he got back in the waiting room with Sam. He knew what possessed him to be so angry with Sam, but he wasn't sure of why he reacted as badly as he did. Trying to scare the shit out of his little brother wasn't the best tactic to take. It was only slightly better then collapsing on him and bawling like a baby. Dean wasn't too proud of that part.

He looked around for Sam. He didn't see him but saw the note next to him on the couch. He read it: Emergency at work. Have to deal with it. Be back later.

Dean wadded up the note and stood up, walking over to the garbage can to throw it away. His stomach rumbled, and he reached into his pockets to see if he had any money. He felt some coins and he made his way down the hall where he knew the vending machines were.

He saw a woman standing next to the machines, hands on her hips, glaring at it as it had personally scorned her. She looked vaguely familiar to him but he wasn't sure why. He never went into town or explored the neighboring areas. He scanned through all the hunts he ever went on, searching for the elusive memory she was in. And he knew who she was; he wasn't sure how he could have forgotten her.

"Layla?" He questioned.

"Hello, Dean," she smiled at him. It was the smile of someone who was at peace with the world. It made Dean feel very sad but yet hopeful at the same time.

"Do you need help with the machine?"

"A little. It ate my money," she shrugged.

Dean nodded and inserted a few coins in the machine. " What do you want?"

"You don't have to pay for me."

"I want to. What do you want?"

Layla sighed. " The Snickers Bar. "

Dean typed in A-3 and with the remaining change, bought himself a granola bar. He grabbed their food from the bin and took it to Layla who was sitting on one of the benches that littered the area.

"I prayed for you," Dean told her, taking a seat on the bench next to her.

" Thank you." She tore off the plastic and took a huge bite of the candy. Dean noticed that she closed her eyes while she chewed, savoring it. He found it more amusing then creepy. "I prayed for you as well."

"Why would you pray for me?"

" No real reason. I just felt like someone ought to make sure you were doing alright," she smiled, taking another bite of her Snickers.

"I'm been doing pretty good actually."

"That's really great to know." It scared Dean how sincere she sounded when she said it, like he was worth something. He had been told that by other people before, but they were always people who could have cared less about him and his happiness.

"How are you coping? Found any miracles yet?"

She didn't answer immediately and Dean wanted to swat himself for saying such a stupid thing. He was going to offer an apology when she turned to look at him, and she reached up her hand to slide off her baseball cap.

She was hairless with a whitish scar running off center down her scalp. Dean stared at her in fascination as she explained. " I had surgery a few months ago. They tried removing the tumor. They got most of it, just not all of it…it …it gives me some extra time."

"I'm sorry."

"You're not the one who gave me this brain tumor, Dean," she stood up to throw away the empty Snickers wrapper.

"I'm the one who stopped you from being cured," Dean blurted out. He needed to rid himself of the guilt he felt for being chosen. He needed reassurance that his actions had been correct in shutting down the Reverend's healing scheme.

He was surprised to hear her chuckling and he felt her cool palm against his cheek. It felt like redemption. " Everything happens for a reason. You were meant to be healed by him so that you could continue on with whatever journey you were undertaking. And I, I guess my path is different. I wasn't meant to get better. I have to enjoy the life I have been given. "

His eyes met hers and in the harsh florescent lighting, her baldhead covered in a thin sheen of sweat shined. " You're beautiful," he told her.

She only smiled, accepting the awkward honesty for what it was, and she sat back down next to him. " I don't feel that way a lot of the time."

Dean had no response to that and he finally opened his granola bar, taking a bite. It was a gritty consistency, tasting more like rubber combined with saltless peanut butter, and he wrapped it up, getting up to throw it out and get something different out of the machine. He settled on a bag of Fritos.

"Is me running into you here meant to happen?" Dean asked, deciding to ask the question that kept bouncing throughout his mind.

"I think so," she responded. " I've been wondering whatever happened to you. Did you find what you were looking for and did it disappoint you?"

"Yes and no. I found what I was looking for and momentarily it was wonderful but now…looking back, it was a disappointment."

"What was so disappointing about it?"

Dean sighed. " I thought everything would change afterwards. But we're all still the same people with the same issues we always had."

"Is that why you're here, Dean? Dealing with the problems that never got solved?"

Dean wasn't sure how much he wanted to tell her about what was going on. Somehow he knew that if he lied, she'd know and if he just avoided it, she wouldn't question him. She'd just wait for him patiently to tell her some other time. He wanted to deny that his father had a problem. But Dean knew his father did. He knew that he, himself, did, when it came to death. When one faces death all the time, one becomes too accepting of it. One stops fearing it. One stops caring about dying because it's just the opposite of living.

"I guess so. My father is…ill," he answered. " What are you doing here?"

She laughed. " For once, it's not for me. My mother is still trying to find someone to save me and we were going through a town near here. She crashed the Jeep and broke a few bones. They didn't have the rehabilitation services at the other hospital so we're here until she can get around on her own."

"How long is that going to be?"

"A few weeks, I think."

"Good," Dean couldn't keep the smile off his face.

* * *

* * *

11:00 A.M.

The phone kept ringing and Sam was stuck listening to more of the opening bars of " Back in Black." He despised the song so much, having been forced to listen to it nearly every day of the past year while on the road with Dean. It figured that Dean would put it as his ring-back tone.

Sam sighed and flipped his cell phone shut, setting it back in the pocket of his dress pants. It didn't look like he would be able to leave the supermarket anytime soon, and he wanted an update on his father's condition. He regretted not telling the staff he was related. He couldn't just call up and ask because it was confidential information.

The electric doors slid open and he walked through, past the grocery carts, and down to his office. He peered into the window and saw the two men still in there, eating subs and jabbering away.

It infuriated him. He hated lawyers. The irony wasn't lost on him that at one time he was planning on becoming one. They were holding him up, talking with each other instead of just dealing with the problem at hand. And who was stuck waiting for them to finish? Him.

He had gotten the call around 7. Some goth girl stole Slim Fast bars. She was caught with the box, admitted that she was trying to steal them. It'd be petit larceny; she or her parents would pay a few hundred-dollar fines, record would be sealed, no harm done. That was why he was originally called. He had to sign the papers that the police had brought to formally charge her. It should have been that simple.

But life could never be easy for him. He went to pull into his reserved spot in the parking lot at 7:30 to find a Ferrari there and he knew he was in trouble. It turned out that the girl wasn't some homeless chick who was trying to find her next meal, though Sam highly doubted a starving person would choose to steal diet food. She was a rich brat whose father was the head of the local area's natural gas provider. She was just stealing for kicks. And of course, her Daddy couldn't let his daughter take the fall for a crime that she was caught doing, and brought a lawyer with him to dispute the charges. So Sam called up the company's lawyer to represent them and the charges. But to make an annoying situation into a disaster, the two lawyers were golf buddies whose kids went to school together. They were just talking over the case jovially, interrupted every few minutes by talks about their wives, football, and other stupid topics that had no place in a discussion dealing with legal matters. And Sam had to pay for his lawyer's time, all $200 an hour for some idiot to blow off his job. He couldn't leave because the charges weren't definite and therefore, he couldn't just sign the papers. So he was really pissed and he knocked on his office window a few time to get their attention and spur them back into action.

He wished he had his master's in law. He could then officially overrule his lawyer and get the papers signed. There was no disagreement in the charges. The girl admitted to it immediately. She knew her rights before she said it. She wasn't interrogated. She was still sticking to her story from what he was told an hour ago by the police officer that was guarding her in the staff lounge. The police officer couldn't leave either but he was getting paid for doing nothing. Sam wasn't. He already went through his forty-hours-a-week and he wasn't allowed overtime despite the fact he was the one who established the company policies and wages.

"Mr. Winchester."

It was the lawyer and Sam perked up. " Did you get it sorted out?"

"Yes. You are not pressing charges against Mr. Mirabano's daughter. "

"What? Why not?"

The lawyer shrugged and Sam sensed that some shady deal had been made between the two layers. " It doesn't really matter. The kid learned her lesson. Probably is frightened enough to never doing it again." Sam doubted that. The girl wasn't going to be scared off by sitting in the staff lounge, watching cartoons and eating free chocolate cake, while her Daddy threw his weight around and made sure she never learned responsibility for her actions.

"So, no papers that I have to sign?"

The lawyer shook his head and Sam realized he had just wasted five good hours waiting around for something that was never going to happen. He sighed. " How much do we owe you?"

"Hmm…four hours. That is $800 dollars."

Sam laughed at the absurdity of it. " I am not paying you that much for something you could have just settled in ten minutes."

"Well, then you'd be breaking the law then, Mr. Winchester. My contract says…"

"I know what your contract says, Mr. Weiz. And I would gladly pay you that much if I felt the matter you were dealing with took that long to work through. However, I called you because I needed someone to talk down the father's lawyer for the girl so we could explain to him that his daughter would only have a fine and no one would ever know what happened. I didn't call you down here to chat with his lawyer, eat lunch with them, and then go against my authority and dismiss the charges."

"That's not how it works here."

Sam ignored the threat. " It will while I work here. I will send you a check for $200 tomorrow morning."

He watched the lawyer storm off with a disgruntled huff and he walked back to his office. The Subway wrappers were still lying on his desk and he threw them out, grabbing his suit jacket off the back of the chair. He wondered as he walked out of his office what he had gotten himself in. He couldn't shake the sense of dread of what was to come. He didn't think that the lawyer would be angry enough to seek revenge and if he did, he couldn't cause too much damage. Unlike his brother and father, Sam's record was clean. The only thing he feared was if Mr. Mirabano got involved, having heard the hushed whispers and the loud bombastic angry rants that accompanied his name around town. But then again, his daughter hadn't been charged. Sam hoped that was goodwill enough.

* * *

* * *

1:00 P.M.

"How'd you convince the nurses to let you in?"

Dean chuckled as Sam took the other seat by their father's bedside. " Charm. Good looks."

"She got sick of you hitting on her, " Sam translated.

Dean shrugged. " It's fine. She wasn't that hot anyway," he changed the topic. " Eaten anything?"

Sam knew he ate something but the whole fiasco at the supermarket was a blur in his mind, and his stomach hurt. He shook his head and quickly raised his hand to protect his face from the incoming food projectile. "Did you have to throw it?"

Dean just smirked as Sam unwrapped the package of Twinkies. "How is he holding up?" Sam asked before taking a bite.

" He's starting to wake."

"How do you know that?"

"His heartbeat is getting more erratic. There are more beats per minute then there was a few minutes ago."

Sam was impressed. He didn't think that Dean had any interest in medicine. "Where did the flowers come from?" All the nightstands in the hospital had flowers on them, a purely decorative touch to make the patient feel more comfortable, but normally they were fake. He could smell the flowers from half way across the room and they were very vibrant white, almost exotic looking.

"Layla. She told me they were _Peruvian Lilies."_

It surprised Sam that he said it so casually. " Isn't that the girl that…"

"…I took the place of in Nebraska," Dean finished. " Yeah. That's her."

"Is she still…?" Sam didn't want to say it.

"Dying? That isn't something that just goes away, Sam."

Sam looked carefully at the expression on his brother's face, searching for the regret and pain that her reemergence in his life would be sure to bring. He didn't find it. Dean looked more alive then he had seen him, despite all the stress that was on him and the lack of sleep.

"You really like her, don't you?"

Dean nodded.

"Wow. Why her?"

"Why not her?"

Dean's tone was a little bit too defensive, Sam felt. " She just doesn't seem like your type."

"And what is my type, Sam?"

"Tall, beautiful, strong women who need someone to take care of them. Bigger bust then brains, tend to be trusting…"

"And she isn't any of those things?"

"I don't mean…"

Dean started laughing and Sam realized that Dean was just hassling him. " I'm not offended. She's different from my normal; I know that. But that is what I like about her. She just… gets it. She understands that life isn't some magical fairy tale," Sam snorted at the memory of the girl who told that to Dean when he ditched her at the prom to go after a demon, "She doesn't need me to protect her. I can just be. No questions. "

"It doesn't bother you that…" Sam stopped, seeing a scared look flash across Dean's face. He couldn't say it. He couldn't say that she was dying. "…She's so much older then you."

"She's only three years older. She just looks older because of all the radiation and chemo they've used to try to shrink the brain tumor."

Sam knew how much appearance played into Dean's attraction towards women so he couldn't help asking, " What about the wrinkles and…"

Dean interrupted him. " She's more beautiful because of it."

Sam was impressed though it scared him how much his brother really liked the girl. It wasn't his usual surface attraction. It ran deeper like a common state of being that existed between them. It was one of the best feelings in the world but the most dangerous at the same time when it got stolen from you. Sam knew. He had that feeling with Jessie.

"Be careful," Sam whispered.

Dean wasn't supposed to hear it but he did. "I will."

Their father shifted in bed, rustling the sheets and both boys turned to look at him, leaning forward in anticipation.

His eyes suddenly popped open and he let out a long ragged breath and then a cough. Dean and Sam were silent, not sure if they should try to make conversation or wait until their father was more coherent.

"I'm alive, aren't I?" he whispered.

"You are," Dean spoke quietly.

"Fuck."

Neither boy had a response for that. Sam glanced over at Dean to see how he was handling knowing that their father did try to commit suicide. He looked calm and cool. It was eating him up inside.

"Why'd you do it?" Sam asked.

"You always have to question, don't you," their father grumbled. He exhaled. " Do I need a reason?"

"No. I just wanted to know why you chose that particular method."

Dean was finding the entire conversation surreal and fairly creepy. " Why is the method special?" he asked.

"It's known as seppaku. Samurais in post-modern Japan, to preserve their own and their country's honor, would take a curved blade and disembowel themselves in order to die."

"Oh, that's nice," Dean commented. "Why didn't it work?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak when he heard the knock on the door. " Come in."

A nurse poked their head in. " I need to see a Dean Winchester."

Dean's face paled and he got up out of his chair.

"What's wrong, Dean?" Sam asked.

"I never told them my name."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

Dean laughed. " I'm a big boy, Sam. I can deal with it." And with that, he left the room, leaving Sam alone in the room with his father.

"So, Sam, why didn't it work? Why am I not dead?" John was slurring his words together and Sam realized there was probably pain medications in his IV somewhere. He would be passing out soon.

" You misunderstood the procedure. Disembowelment isn't what killed the samurai. It would kill them eventually, but it was horribly painful and would have taken hours for them to die. The samurai would have an attendant who would sever their necks after they cut through their stomachs to keep them from feeling too much pain."

"Oh…" A maniacal smile came to his lips, either from a thought that formed in his head or induced from his drugged-up state. Either way, it made Sam uncomfortable.

"Don't think about it," Sam ordered, wanting to clear the idea out of his head while he could.

"You and I both know that he would do it if I asked him to."

He was right. Dean's devotion to their father had no visible end. He would kill their father if he were ordered to, Sam feared. " I wouldn't let him."

"We'll see." Before Sam could blink, their father was sleeping again and he heard someone enter the room.

"Did you have a nice chat?" the nurse asked him as she made notes of his vitals on her clipboard, completely ignoring the fact he wasn't supposed to be in the room.

"Not really," Sam answered honestly.

"No one ever does. When they wake up, they're too drugged up to make much sense."

"What if he did make sense?"

"Ignore it. He doesn't know what he is talking about," she smiled at him. " There's a commotion going on outside. I think you may be needed."

Sam didn't question how she knew about it, but he rushed out the room. Noise, a lot of it, was coming from near the visitor area. He ran towards it but halfway there, the noises just stopped. He panicked and ran faster towards the waiting room as he heard the click of a safety being removed off the gun.

The waiting room was in disarray, everyone huddled in one corner, staring wide-eyed at the other side of the room, which had police officers lying on the ground, clutching their stomachs, and one officer next to Dean, holding a gun to his head. Dean was smirking.

"…Aggravated kidnapping of Ms. Rebecca Mason, the impersonation of a public servant, an additional eight counts of capital murder for the killing of eight police officers and for tampering with government records. You have the right to remain silent. Anything…" Sam watched in horror and disbelief as Dean was read his Miranda rights.

"Is there anything you like to say?" the police officer asked.

Dean's smirk had remained on his face the entire time the police officer had made his speech. Sam feared that Dean would say something stupid and snarky that would later come back to haunt him. But he didn't. Dean spotted Sam across the room before he could and his smirk fell, revealing the lost confused boy.

"Don't talk," Sam mouthed. Dean nodded and suddenly the mask was back up, smirk in place, and the police officer ordered him to move. Dean shuffled along in front of the officer.

Sam didn't watch his brother leave. He wasn't capable of watching it. Instead he did what he knew he was capable of - getting Dean out of trouble. He found a bench in the vending machine area and started going through his friends list on his cell phone.

_

* * *

_

_End Chapter 3_

* * *

_You seem so bruised  
__And it's beautiful as it's reflecting off from you as it shines  
__You're in the bathroom carving holiday designs into yourself  
__Hoping no one will find you but they found you  
__And they took you  
__And you somehow survived  
__So wake up and if the holidays don't hollow out your eyes  
__Then press yourself against whatever  
__You find to be beautiful and trembling with life_

_I'm so happy…  
…that you didn't die_


	4. The Artist in the Ambulence

**An End  
**( or maybe just a new beginning )

Sam hated prisons. He hated the stench they almost always possessed, a dirty earthy odor. He hated how the smell would penetrate his clothing and would forever smell afterwards no matter how many times he washed them. Perhaps that only occurred in the seedy local jails that Dean or John usually got dragged to, because the few times he had been in one, they had smelled like lemons from the chemicals they used to clean the cells.

Dean's current jail was fairly nice. The floors sparkled and the halls were quiet as he walked down the rows of prisoners to his brother's cell accompanied by a guard. It was deja vu for him. He remembered doing it as a child.

_The hall seemed to go on forever. He counted the tiles as he walked upon them, afraid to look up and meet the gaze of the angry hooting men. He felt Dean squeeze his hand. " They can't get you," he told his brother and Sam nodded. Still, he walked faster._

_"So what are kids like you doing here?" the guard asked them as he led through the labyrinth of isolated hallways._

_Dean answered for both of them. " We're here to visit our father."_

_"By yourselves?" he looked at the eleven and seven-year old with curiosity and skepticism. " Where's your mother?"_

_"Dead."_

_"Oh. I'm sorry," The guard stopped participating in the friendly chatter after that. After a few more minutes of walking, the guard stopped at a door. He punched the code into the security panel and the door slid open._

_"Tell me when you're ready to come out," he told the boys as they entered the room. The door shut behind them._

_Their father was sitting on his cot, picking at his toenails. "Hello, Dean…Sam?" Their father's passive expression turned to anger. " Dean, I told you not to bring him."_

_Before Dean could speak, Sam hurled himself at his father, hugging him. " Don't blame Dean. I just wanted to see you. He tried to stop me, he really did, but…"_

_John chuckled, anger disappearing, as he hugged Sam back. " It's alright. I'm not mad." Sam pulled away, smiling, and he ran back to Dean who was still standing by the door. " How'd you both get here?" their father asked._

_"The bus. The lawyer dealt with our clearance like you told us he would."_

_John nodded. "He's a good man."_

_"How are we paying for him?" Dean asked._

_"Stop worrying, Dean. He's court-appointed. He's free."_

_Dean let out the breath he was holding in._

_"Dad, why are you in jail?" Sam asked. " Are you going to be here forever?"_

_"No, Sammy. I'll be out of here in a few weeks once my lawyers finalize my plea deal."_

_Sam frowned. " I wouldn't be eating Lucky Charms every night?"_

_John chuckled, then turned to Dean, and said in a stern parenting voice, " You need to feed him better."_

_Dean didn't respond and turned to Sam. " We need to leave. The bus leaves in a half hour. It's going to take that long to get out of here."_

_"But…"_

_"Do what your brother says, Sam,"_

_Sam pouted for a second before giving his father a hug. " Bye."_

_"See you soon, tiger." He ruffled Sam's hair affectionately. " Take care of him," he told Dean._

_"I will." Dean knocked on the door and the guard opened it for them. Sam followed Dean out of the door._

_"Why is Dad in there?" Sam asked._

_"He bought a fake passport so he could get to Egypt."_

_" Why would he do that?"_

_"A lead came up there."_

_"Oh."_

The only difference between the two places was that Dean was in a correctional facility, not a state Penitentiary, and thus the setting for their conversation was different. Dean was sitting in the visitor's area, hands and feet cuffed. Conversations were going on around him between prisoners and their guests,

"Hey," Sam took a seat across the table from him. " How are you holding up?"

"I hate orange," Dean growled, referring to the color of his uniform.

Sam smirked. " Anything else that bothers you?"

"Showers. Finally get to take one and I have ugly fat men leering at me the entire time."

Sam did not laugh for Dean's sake. His brother looked miserable. " Katie and Jason, your lawyers," seeing Dean's confused look at the names, " have gotten you off most of your charges. No one understands why the doppelganger thing happened and the prosecution admitted that they would be making fools out of themselves trying to get you charged for the crimes. This means you don't have the charges for the assault of Rebecca and the killing of the SWAT officers. You've gotten off on the public servant impersonation because there is no evidence that you ever claimed you were a police officer except for Rebecca's statement which she has retracted, and her lawyers are clearing that up…"

"So she's taking the blame for me?" Dean interrupted.

"Yeah. She wouldn't get into any trouble."

"Good."

Sam sighed. " …Let's see. The tampering of government record charges were thrown out, seeing that you can't fake your own death certificate when you're already dead and they again can't explain the doppelganger. And that clears up all those charges."

"So when will I be out of here?"

"A few days. You'll be out on bail until your trial."

"What? I thought…"

Sam took a deep breath. " Dean, when they tried to arrest you, you punched and kicked six police officers. They are going to have to charge you for that."

"Oh. That."

"Why did you have to be so stupid, Dean?"

Dean took offense to that comment, it hitting on a deeper level then it intended. "When you walk out of a room and randomly people start surrounding you and look ready to attack you, you don't think too clearly. I tried to run. They followed. I started to dispatch them…."

"How did they even know where to find you? It's not like we're in Missouri."

"Remember that nurse I told you I hit on to get into Dad's room?" Sam vaguely remembered that part of the conversation. " She saw my picture on an back episode of American's Most Wanted the night before. Called me in."

Laughter burst out of Sam and he found he couldn't stop.

"What's so funny?" Dean asked, ever impatient.

Sam took a series of breaths, trying to quell his laughter. "Only you would have such bad luck," he explained.

"Yeah…" Dean gave a small pained smile. " How's Dad?"

"Being an asshole. He wouldn't talk to me. I think he knows that it was me who found him."

"He always did get prissy when things didn't go as planned," Dean commented.

Sam started laughing again.

"You're stressed out, aren't you?"

Sam nodded.

"How's work?"

Sam didn't get a chance to answer. A bell sounded and Sam noticed that everyone was standing up, saying their goodbyes.

"I'll see you in a few days," Sam told him.

Dean nodded. "See you then. Tell Layla I say hi."

"What makes you think Layla knows you're in jail?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. "People talk."

Sam had never heard truer words.

* * *

Dean never dreamt, neither asleep nor awake. It wasn't a conscious decision. He didn't will himself to just sleep in the abyss of darkness. Perhaps he did have dreams but he never remembered them when he woke up. It was the same deal when he was awake. Sam used to come running to him every few days with a new better idea about what he wanted to be when he grew up. Dean could not remember a time when he had a plan for his life. He never had any real goals or things he wanted to achieve before he died. He just wanted to live. He just wanted to do something great. He didn't care what. He wanted to feel like he had importance. 

He remembered his father telling him right after he had gotten bailed out of jail for breaking & entering that jail offered a benefit that the real world could never give and that was time. It was a time to be introspective and think about your life. Dean was never the pensive type and he had laughed at his father when he was told that. He had been in his fair share of jails in the following years but never for as long as he was in for now. He began to understand what his father meant. With no one to chat with, he started holding conversations in his head about the events that had taken place over the years, all the conversations he had never had, and the things he had never done.

He thought a lot about his childhood, specifically the first year after their mother died. He remembered his father holing up in the local library and when they kicked him out, by the kitchen table, reading. They were all books on demons and spirits. He'd write upon yellow legal pads every little detail, going days and nights on end without sleep. That was how he lost his job as a mechanic, which to Dean, appeared not to bother him in the least. It gave him more time to study.

Dean remembered he was starting kindergarten. The first day, his father didn't come. He walked to school alone. He saw kids who looked like him standing around, hugging their mothers good-bye. The mothers cried, waving to their children who stood on the steps, poised to open the big door to their new world. Dean remembered not feeling sad but just lonely. He felt like he was different. He felt like he was the only one in the world; he was the only one who cared about him.

Dean knew that at five years old, he probably didn't feel exactly like that. He would not have the words to express that depth of an emotion. He probably didn't know what emotions were. But, as he ran through his life story, it stood out as a moment that vocalized what his life would later be like.

That day, he returned home, carrying all the papers he needed signed in his hand because John had forgotten to get him a backpack. He found Sam crying in his crib and his father nowhere to be found. Sam had pooped his diaper. Dean remembered it had an ungodly stench to it and it made him nauseated as he changed the diaper. It was the first time he had ever done it. He had never been taught, going on what he remembered his mother doing when Sam cried. He picked up the clean Sam and rocked him like his mother had taught him, trying to get him back to sleep.

When Sam had fallen in slumber, he went searching for his father to get his papers signed. He never found his father. He remembered going back in Sam's room and crying because he was worried. He was scared. He had never been alone at home before. Dean remembered sitting in Sam's nursery for hours, waiting to hear the door slam, telling him his father was home. But the house remained silent.

He felt abandoned but Dean remembered when Sam woke, he was gurgling, blowing little spit bubbles. It was the coolest thing little Dean had ever seen and it made him feel better. Dean believed it was at that moment that he was sold on the idea of being Sam's protector, making sure he never felt alone.

"Dean Winchester." His name was accompanied by a door screeching open and Dean stood up from the bed to face the guards. "You're free to go."

Dean looked at them surprised, having expected to hear the news later in the week, but didn't question it. " Thanks."

The guard nodded. " You can pick up your clothes at the front desk."

Dean smiled.

* * *

A slight problem arose when Dean finally finished signing all the paperwork that finalized him being sent home. He realized he had no ride back home, and Lansing was a good hour away. He used the phone at the receptionist desk to call his brother, but he got no answer meaning Sam was at work. Dad was otherwise incapacitated and it wasn't like Dean had any friends. So reluctantly, he called Layla. 

It wasn't that he was embarrassed for her to see his this way. He had made an ass out of himself already in front of her with the attacking the reverend's wife, and he could only imagine what she thought he was doing. He was more ashamed that he couldn't have dealt with it on his own. It annoyed him that he had to call up someone to get him back home because he had no money and no one else to help him. He figured it came down to the fact he hated feeling helpless.

Layla pulled up by the curb exactly a hour after he called. She had a rusty blue 1994 Chevy Blazer. He hated it. He opened the passenger door. It didn't squeal. He hated the car even more.

"Are you mad that I called you?" he asked as she put the car in reverse, getting in the right position to do the U-turn to start them in the direction she had come from.

"Why would I be mad that you called me?"

Dean shrugged. " Most people would. I mean, I basically asked you to drop everything you were doing and spend the rest of your day driving up here to get me then drive back."

Layla spun the wheel to take the turn to put them on the highway. " You had no one else who could have."

"Still…thanks."

She looked away from the road to smile at him. " You're welcome."

"Prisons should be like airports. Every time you leave an airport, there's your car parked several hundred meters from the building, covered in snow or whatever shit nature decided to throw at it, but it's there. You can get in it and just leave."

Layla laughed. " True. But how would you get the car to the prison? No one goes to prison willingly."

Dean didn't know what to say. It was weirding him out how freely she was taking it that she just picked him up from prison. It freaked him out that she responded to his joke about it so carefree.

"You're okay with me being in prison?" Dean asked, wanting clarification.

"Not really. It makes me sort of uncomfortable, like a little scared to be around you," she looked at him. " Sorry."

It hurt but it was honest. He appreciated it. " I was there for a murder I didn't commit…"

"Sounds very Fugitive-esque," she interjected.

Dean smirked. " …Some guy who looked like me killed some people in Missouri. He was killed. They thought I was him, so he was named after me. Some lady saw me, thought I was him because same name, same appearance. I freaked out. Hit a few cops."

Layla nodded, quiet, as she contemplated what she was told." You seem to attract weird events," she commented.

"You have no idea."

"I think I do."

"Please tell." Dean leaned back against the seat, arms crossed, both ready to be amused and scared that she just might make the right conclusion.

"You are a wander. You wander into places where strange unexplainable things are happening. You fix them. You leave and wander off to the next story."

It was nearly dead-on. Dean felt the panic rising in him. "And you know this from two events?" His voice was steady. It didn't reveal anything, he hoped. He didn't want to be found out. He didn't want to have to explain his life to another person and be rejected for it yet again.

"I know this was wrong of me. I'm ashamed of it, actually. But…" she pulled over on the side of the road, so she could face him. The sounds of car whizzing by them filled the silence as she just looked at him, nervously clenching and unclenching her hands. " …I researched you and your brother."

"…Why would you do that?" Dean asked quietly, finding the muscles in his throat to not be working efficiently.

"Shortly after you left town, I went to the doctor. The tumor was still there and it just hit me that I really was going to die. I knew it all along but I was still holding out hope because of Roy. I was so angry because I could have been healed. I could have lived the life I always dreamed about having. I could have had everything if you hadn't stopped them from healing me." As her story progressed, her lip began quivering and her eyes started getting watery. Dean tried to stop the wave of pity he felt at seeing someone who he believed to be so strong crumbling before him, but the pure misery written in her eyes brought him down with her.

"I know now that I was being stupid but I couldn't get over it. I started looking for someone similar to Roy. I clicked on some link that led me to a newspaper article talking about a magician who was claiming he could raise the dead. It wasn't what I was looking for but there was a picture. You were in the background, looking away,.." her voice shook as she spoke. " …So I googled your name. There were hundreds of hits on you, more if you count your brother and father. It was like for every unexplainable murder, you were there. I…I began to start to try to piece together why you were there that day."

"And why was I there?" Dean whispered.

"I needed to know why… I couldn't have my miracle." She let out a pained sob, tears running down her face, and Dean finally broke down and hugged her.

She was a silent crier, which he was glad for. She was also fairly graceful about it, giving him a sheepish smile when she was done, and grabbed a tissue out of the glove compartment to dab her eyes and fix her running eyeliner.

"It's okay. I don't mind you knowing," Dean told her. " I never thought of looking up my own name."

"Use a fake name."

"I do. I always get caught."

Layla chuckled and after a deep breath, pulled the car back onto the highway. "Learn to lie better."

"I'm a good liar," Dean said defensively.

She smiled at him. " You are. What you need to do is learn better is how to hide the truth."

"That makes no sense."

"When you lie or are just talking, you're unreadable," Layla told him. " But the minute you start telling the truth, you start really looking at the person you are talking to and they can see everything you really are."

"What am I, then?"

She looked away from the road. " Someone who desperately wants to be liked. Someone who is unable to see his worth. Someone who cares so much about everyone, loved ones and strangers."

Dean was at a loss of words. The rest of the ride was silent ashe reflected upon her words.

* * *

A buzzing noise went through his office and Sam stopping typing on the computer. He looked around his office, searching for the noise. A little red light was bleeping in the corner of the room. Sam minimized his screen and got out of his chair to investigate. Lettering was under the swirling light, and he read it: Panic Button. 

No one had ever explained what it was to him but he had ideas. He walked to the window of his office and peered out of it, looking for the commotion. He found it coming towards him. Three men were walking behind one of his cashiers, a tiny mousy teenager whose normally huge petrified eyes looked like they were going to shatter and break because they were so big with fright.

He stepped away from his window and checked the door. It was locked. They couldn't get in immediately. He had time to formulate a plan. He suspected it was a robbery because the men were being taken to his office. It was shortly after seven and he had just gotten back from putting the majority of the money they had accumulated for the day in the safe. The robbers would not be able to find much money in the cashier's drawers and he, being manager, was the only one who knew the combination and had the additional key to open it.

He ran through his options. He didn't know the number for the police station off-hand or the extension he had to press on the phone to speed-dial them and he didn't have the time to find the number and call them himself. It would make sense for the panic button to be a direct line to the police station. Sam hoped it was. It would take a couple of minutes for the police to get there, being a few blocks down the road, but Sam realized that really didn't worry him. He knew he could probably handle the guys. He didn't grow up fighting and hunting demons to not be able to deal with some punks.

"Mr. Winchester, I need to talk to you," he could hear the girl from the other side of the door.

It was show time and he decided not to keep them waiting. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

The three men and the cashier rushed the room and Sam watched in wary interest as two of the men settled their guns on him and the cashier.

"Open the safe or we'll kill the girl," the one who had the gun on the girl spouted.

Sam wanted to laugh at the cliché language but he kept his face straight. He sized up the three men. They were bulkier then he was but he had a lot of height on them. They were trying to look tough with their tattoos on their biceps and eyebrow piercings'. Sam wasn't positive that they knew how to use their guns, but he figured it was best to believe they could. Instinct told him that even if they knew how to use them, they didn't have it in them to kill another human being. It wouldn't be easy because he was outnumbered but he'd had been in worse circumstances and came out unscathed.

He had to let it play out like they wanted it to. "Let the girl go and I'll take you to the safe."

The three guys looked at each other, having not been prepared for the robbery to go so easy. The shortest one, the only one without a gun trained on him, and whom Sam presumed to be the leader, spoke. " Take us to the safe and open it. We'll then release the girl."

It wasn't Sam's favorite idea but he nodded. " Fine. Excuse me." He slipped by the leader and opened his office door. He made sure to walk slow enough that the three men were just behind him. He entered the staff lounge where it was kept and halted by the door that opened up to it.

"This is it." He announced, turning around to face the gunmen.

"Open it," the leader ordered, his two henchmen thrusting the guns in the cashier's face.

Sam turned back around and got the key out of his pocket to unlock the door. He wondered when the police were going to show up. He wasn't sure how much time had passed but it had been more then ten minutes since the panic button going off. The police were only a few blocks away from the store. Pulling the door open, he stepped out of the way to let them see the shiny metallic safe.

"Let the girl go," he told them.

"No…open…"

The leader interrupted. " Let the girl go. He'll do what we say, won't you, Mr. Winchester," he fiddled with his gun at his hip, attempting to remind him of how much a threat he was. It made him more look like an inexperienced fool. Sam realized he was beginning to hate being called Mr. Winchester. The only people who ever called him that were the people who were pissed off with him.

Sam nodded, and the henchmen released their grip on the girl's arm. She stood there for a second, and then with a worried glance at a boss, dashed off. Sam turned back to the safe, kneeling beside it to put in the combination.

He could see because of the shoddy lighting in the break room, the robber's shadows. He could see how close they were to him and how their shadows wavered as they shifted impatiently for him to open the safe. Their guns blended in with their shadows so without looking at them, he couldn't tell if they were still pointed at him, but it didn't matter. They weren't going to be given a chance to take a shot at him. He put in the last number and opened the safe.

"Move out of the way," he heard the leader order and Sam stood up, moving out of their way. The three of them, at the sight of the brown zip-up pouch that contained the money, charged forward to grab it, forgetting about Sam. Their greed was their mistake and Sam moved behind them.

He made a point to accidentally brush up against one of the henchmen, and when the guy turned around to face him, Sam punched him right under his jaw, snapping up his head. Sam wasn't sure if he hit him hard enough to make him blackout but it would be enough to disorient him. The other two guys turned to face them, one reaching for the gun he had set on the ground to make a grab for the money, the leader going for the one at his hip.

He stomped on the henchman's hand, listening for the satisfying crunch of bones breaking, and with a quick sweep and push up with his own hand, he broke the guy's nose. The man screamed and Sam turned around, knowing the man wouldn't attack him, having lost any will to fight.

The leader had been quick enough to grab his gun and had it pointed it at him.

"Are you going to shoot me?" Sam asked.

The guy kept the gun pointed at him. Sam noticed his hands were shaking and that the gun's safety was on.

Sam stepped forward. " That would be a mistake if you did."

"Step back or I'll shoot!" the small man screamed.

That confirmed Sam's suspicion that the man had no clue how to use the gun. He put on his best evil Dean smirks and began walking towards him.

"I'm warning you…!"

Sam kept moving. The guy didn't shoot. He still didn't when Sam reached him, the gun barrel digging into his chest.

"You have no fucking clue how to use that thing, do you?" Sam hissed.

The man didn't answer. He tried to run. Sam grabbed him by his shirt collar to drag him closer. He was getting around to kicking him when he heard the door bursting open and he saw out of the corner of his eye, the State police filing in.

He let go of the guy and left the room, letting the police deal with the mess.

* * *

Sam got home at around 10:30 P.M. after giving his statement and closing up the supermarket for the night because he thought it was only fair seeing that most of the employees were slightly traumatized. He didn't expect to find a car already in their garage nor a scattered row of candles lighting the house. He dumped his briefcase on the kitchen table, a good distance from where the melted carton of box of ice cream was sitting, and followed the path of the candles out to the living room. 

Dean was sitting on the couch, illuminated by a flickering candle, partly covered by a blanket. There was a large amorphous shape at his side and only with closer inspection, did Sam realize that it was Layla, wrapped up in the blanket, sleeping.

"Hey," Dean greeted.

"Hey," Sam flopped down into the air chair. It was heaven and he put up the footstool so he could stretch out and relax. " What are you doing here?"

"They let me out early and someone wasn't around to give me a ride home," Dean gave him a sleepy half-lidded glare.

"I didn't know… We got robbed today."

"Sweet. Did you make them pay for messing up your day?"

"Yeah. Broke a few of their bones. No blood though," Sam said quietly.

Dean looked at him carefully. " You feel bad about doing it?"

"I do. They didn't deserve it."

"Sam…did they come in there with their guns?"

"Yeah."

"Did they scare your staff members," Dean continued.

Sam nodded.

"Did they threaten to harm them?"

"They did."

"Then, you were just being a responsible boss, keeping your employees safe. Stop feeling sorry for them. They're scum. They deserved it."

Sam knew Dean was right but unlike Dean, he had more issues with rationalizing violence. He changed the subject. "What's Layla doing here?"

"She gave me a ride back. I bought ice cream and invited her in as a thank you."

"And now she's fast asleep," Sam was confused. " When did you get back?"

"Around six."

"And what exactly have you been doing for four hours without a TV and light?"

" Curious about my sex life, Sammy?"

That wasn't something he wanted to know and he heard Dean laugh quietly. " Nothing happened, Sam, so wipe that disgusted expression off your face. We just talked. She fell asleep. I have been dozing in and out for the past hour or so."

"Were you that boring?"

"She's on new medication. While she's adjusting to it, she gets really sleepy."

Sam watched as Layla shifted, burrowing her head further in Dean's side. He watched Dean smile and pull the blanket to cover her back up. It was too sickingly sweet. He was jealous.

"I'm going to go to bed," Sam announced, climbing out of the chair.

"Wait." Sam turned to face Dean. " This is an odd question but do I go around trying to get everyone to like me?"

It was an odd question and Sam had no clue why his brother was asking it. " You're a fuckin suck-up and a push-over. Does that answer it?"

Dean nodded.

"Are you going to be here all night?" Sam asked.

"Until she wakes up. Anyway, it's cooler out here then in my room."

"Not with her draped over you,"

"I'll manage," Dean flashed him a smile and leaned back his head. Sam blew out the candles as he made his way to his bedroom.

* * *

Several days passed between Dean getting home from jail and the return of their father to the house. John wasn't completely healed but by Dean's estimates, the insurance wasn't going to cover any more of the bills besides that of medication, and the boys needed every bit of money they could keep. Dean was the one who ended up being responsible for his father's care because he had the time and experience to deal with any complications. Dean didn't really mind. Their father was always sleeping when Dean checked on him. He was still unable to eat and so all his nutrients were being transferred through the IV, meaning Dean never had a reason to wake him up. Dean was somewhat relieved. Sam had told him about the conversation he had had with John regarding John's desire to die and Dean didn't want to be put in the position that John was proposing for him. He didn't want to choose between Sam's will and his father's. 

Sam was spending most of the week at work, leaving before Dean woke up, and coming home past midnight some nights. They were doing some serious public relations to make the customers feel safe after witnessing the failed robbery, and Sam had to be there to witness it besides doing his usual manger duties. Sam looked like hell the few times Dean had seen him in passing, but he figured they were getting a lot of money out of the deal. It was just too bad it was off Sam's exhaustion.

Dean pulled the pants out of the suds, and he squeezed, ringing out the water. When he felt the pants were dry enough, he hung them over the railing of the stairs to their backyard, and then dumped the suds, finally finished with the washing of the clothes. It wasn't that they didn't have the money to go to the Laundromat – at most, it'd cost them a few quarters and gas money – but it was too far of a walk and Sam brought the Impala to work everyday since it looked a bit fancier and closer to what a manager should be driving then the junk, fixed-up cars that filled the rest of the garage. Plus Dean had no intention of looking like a house-wife, carrying her basket of laundry around town.

He went back to the house, and immediately heard the bell ringing. He ran to his father's room.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked.

John had propped himself up with pillows. Dean couldn't imagine how much that was hurting him, moving, muscles stretched. "Nothing. I wanted to see how fast you'd come running if I rang."

"Sorry. I was outside."

"Two minutes. When I ring, I expect you to be right here. What if I really was in trouble? Hmm…"

"I'm sorry. I'll be quicker next time," Dean apologized again.

"Better be."

"Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat." Dean offered.

"No."

That was good because Dean didn't think he was healed enough to not be in pain when he ate. " Then what do you want?"

"I want to die."

It was a direct stare he gave Dean, so full of hope. Dean flinched. " I can't do that."

"You told me once that you would do whatever I said. Where's that spirit now?" their father spat out, angry. He began coughing and Dean watched, almost in as much agony as his father was, as his stomach heaved, aggravating his injuries.

"I promised I'd do anything for you within reason," Dean clarified.

"Is your own father wanting to die not a good reason?"

"Dad. You're not yourself. Go back to sleep." Dean needed him to be quiet. Every word his father spoke induced more and more guilt in him.

"I won't."

A stalemate was reached and Dean willed himself to leave the room. His limbs wouldn't move. " Give me a good reason why I should," he found himself saying.

"I'm tired, Dean. I'm tired of being in so much pain."

It was nearly a plea. He had never heard anything like it from his father and he felt himself caving. He closed his eyes, sighing, trying to steel himself. He knew his father was referring to emotional pain, not physical, but he saw the perfect solution, the way to get his father to be quiet and also appease him somewhat. His father wanted to escape reality. Dean could do that.

"I can give up better painkillers," Dean offered.

Dean wasn't sure he actually wanted his father to take him up on his offer but he did, nodding his head slightly. Dean walked over to his father and slipped out the IV that was dripping in the painkillers. He replaced the IV with one that would drip a stronger dosage.

His father didn't thank him and Dean took the silence as an opportunity to leave. He was feeling drained and his stomach was in knots. Dean walked into the kitchen and poured himself a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats. As he nibbled on them, reading the newspaper, he couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was happening. He set down his bowl and walked back down the hall to his father's room.

His father's skin looked odd, like someone had punched him weeks ago, and the bruises were in the last pale stage of blue before disappearing. He didn't look healthy and Dean pressed a hand to his father's forehead. It was cold and clammy. Dean tried to calm down and not panic, placing his hand lightly on his father's heart. He could feel the beats vibrating through his hand, though very slow, and his chest expanding and collapsing as he breathed.

"Overdose," Dean diagnosed to himself and he ripped out the IV. On a second thought, he put back in the IV of the weakest painkiller he had on hand to guarantee his father wouldn't be in too much pain when he woke up, and he ran to his bedroom to get his cell phone. He rushed back to his father's room to keep an eye on him, and dialed Sam's number.

To his surprise, Sam didn't have his phone off like he always did when he was at work. " Hello."

"Sam. It's me, Dean. Dad's…"

"Dean. I can't talk now. Whatever is going on with Dad, I am sure you can deal with it. Okay. Bye…" Sam hung up and Dean stared at his phone in disbelief.

* * *

Sam really did want to chat with Dean and find out what was going on with his Dad. He knew Dean wouldn't have called if it wasn't serious. But it wasn't the time to talk and he set his cell phone back in his pocket and stared down Mr. Weiz, the company lawyer. 

"You can not fire me," Sam told him.

"We can. Mr. Mirabano is taking over ownership of your store tomorrow. He's requested that he puts his own managing staff in to oversee this company."

"Since when did you start representing him and not the company?"

"Since he bought it two days ago," He said it with such malicious glee that made Sam want to strangle him.

"And shouldn't when someone buys a company or the branch of a store, the person in charge of that store have to sign something and made aware of it?"

"Oh, but as your lawyer, I represent you. You didn't need to sign."

Sam was seething. He took a deep breath to get his temper out of control. " Alright, then. Why is he keeping all my staff and not me on duty?"

"Mr. Mirabano really wasn't too happy with your handling of the robbers. He thought you were a little too harsh with them."

"They were threatening to kill one of my employees!" Sam yelled.

Mr. Weiz pushed up his glasses, which weren't falling down. " He feels you should have waited for the police."

"The police didn't show up until twenty minutes after the panic button went off!"

"Well, you can't expect them to react immediately."

Sam felt like he was having a conversation with the most moronic person in the world. " They are two blocks away. This is not some metropolis with a ton of crime."

"But…"

Sam interrupted him. " And they didn't even show up. The state police were the ones who came."

"What can I say, the police here are useless, " the lawyer shrugged.

Sam wondered if the guy realized he had contradicted himself. " Which is more reason for me to take them out on my own."

Mr. Weiz sighed loudly, exaggerating it to show his annoyance. " I am going to have to ask you, Mr. Winchester to vacate this property."

"What? Why?"

"Because Mr. Mirabano doesn't want you here anymore, causing a commotion for his customers."

"Mr. Mirabano isn't even here," Sam hissed.

"You're on private property. He has…"

"Private property by which the public is allowed on…" Sam corrected.

"Get out or I'll call the police."

Sam lost his cool and just began laughing, shaking his head. " You said it yourself that they wouldn't come," he told the lawyer. But he didn't take any chances and he stepped through the sliding door. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell to dial Dean's phone number.

* * *

Dean and Sam took alternating shifts, sitting by their father's bedside, as the painkillers worked their way out of his system and left him in an easy sleep. It was on Sam's third shift, close to noon, when their father opened his eyes. Sam sprung up out of his chair and wiped down his father's sweat-drenched forehead. 

"Mary?" he whispered.

"No, Dad. It's me, Sam."

"Oh…" He inhaled. " It was just a dream, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, it was," Sam told him. His father looked disappointed. " Was it a good dream?"

"Mary and I were having a picnic in the park. You boys were playing tag. She was spreading mayonnaise on a piece of bread and just eating it like that and suddenly she stopped, dropping the knife into the jar. She looked at me and told me that I had to stop. I asked her what I had to stop, and suddenly Dean was running over, carrying you. You…uh… scraped your knee and she told me to go get the bandages out of the car. I told her I didn't know where they were and she smiled, said that only I could find them, only I could fix the wound, and then, I woke up."

"That's…odd,"

"I know. But…" he paused. " Can you do me a favor? Write it all down."

"Sure, Dad. Any reason?"

" I feel like it means something and…" he yawned. " don't want to forget it when I go…" he trailed off. Sam looked over at him to find him sleeping.

"Sleep well, " Sam whispered, walking out to the kitchen to go get a legal pad to jot it all down.

* * *

_End Chapter 4: The Artist in the Ambulance_

* * *

_Now I lay here owing my life to a stranger  
And I realize that empty words are not enough  
I'm left here with the question of just  
What have I to show except the promises I never kept?  
I lie here shaking on this bed, under the weight of my regrets_


	5. Octavarium

**An End  
**(or maybe just another beginning)

"Sam."

Sam groaned, burrowing his head further into the pillow, attempting to drown out the voice coming from the hallway. He heard partially through his half-asleep daze, footsteps getting closer and the squeal open of a door.

"Sam, you need to get up."

Sam didn't want to get up. He never had the opportunity to sleep in. He tightened his grip around his blankets, wrapping himself in a tighter cocoon.

"Sam. I'm not kidding. Get up now!"

"Leave me alone," he mumbled to Dean.

"If that's the way it has to be," he heard his brother muttering and suddenly, his sheets were wet. Sam groaned and slid off the bed. A wet spot was in the center of the bed and Dean held the empty bottle of water as proof of his prank.

"That's not cool."

"Whatever. Get dressed. You're taking Dad to Lawrence."

"What? Why?" Sam looked up from rummaging through his drawers for a clean t-shirt.

"He wants to see Missouri."

"And why can't you take him?" Sam grabbed the hairbrush off the floor and yanked it through his hair.

"I have a job interview."

That explained why Dean was dressed in his good jeans and a button-down shirt. " Layla guilted you into it, didn't she? Couldn't pay for her movie ticket?"

Dean glared and Sam mentally congratulated himself for getting it right. " Someone needs to pay the bills since someone lost their job."

Sam wasn't going to succumb to the bait. He wasn't awake enough to argue. He took a seat on the dry part of his bed and worked on wedging his feet into his tied sneakers. " So where's the interview?"

"A club downtown, near the college. They need some bouncers."

Sam nodded. The job was a good fit for Dean. " How much do they pay?"

"Don't know. Doesn't matter either," Dean said. He reached his hands into his pockets and pulled out the keys to the Impala. He tossed them to Sam. " You have a long drive. She has a full tank of gas," he offered as his explanation.

Sam looked at him confused. " How are you going to get around?"

"We have other cars, Sam."

" I know that. Just…do they work?"

Dean laughed. " I fixed up the Cordoba."

"Isn't that the car that we used when you drove me out to California for orientation?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded.

"That was a good trip," Sam lamented.

"I spent the whole time wishing the car would break down," Dean mumbled under his breath.

"Huh?" Sam didn't hear what he said; only getting a few scattered words.

"Nothing. Go…Dad's probably dressed by now."

"You let him dress himself?" Sam practically screeched.

"The man has pride," Dean shrugged. Sam rolled his eyes and left the room. He found his father sitting on the couch, patiently, hands in his lap, much like an obedient child.

Sam twirled the keys around his hand. " Ready to go."

John standing up was Sam's answer and John followed him to the car, Sam keeping an eye on his father as he descended down the stairs into the garage. John was moving fairly well, Sam concluded. He just needed to rest between long distances, such as the distance from one end of the house to the other. Both men got in the car and Sam stuck the keys in the ignition, starting the engine. He could see Dean entering the garage out of his rearview window as he pulled out of the garage and onto the road.

Sam wondered ten minutes into the drive, if this was how it was going to be the two-hour drive; silence and shifty glances at each other. Neither had any clue what to say to bridge the rift that had formed between them. Sam wasn't sure if he wanted to bridge it. He had worked through his resentment for his father. He didn't want to rehash old feelings.

"So, Dean had a job interview," his father suddenly said, and Sam zoned in on the conversation.

"Yeah. To be a bouncer."

" He always did have a need to save people."

Sam thought about it. " That could explain his infatuation with Layla."

John looked confused. " Who's Layla?"

Sam had forgotten how little of their hunting adventures their father actually knew. " She's this girl that Dean met at the fake healer when he was dying."

The words escaped out of his mouth before he had time to censor their bluntness. They were almost nearing a civil conversation and now he had to go and ruin it. But there was no other way to put it without hinting at the negative connotations of the incident. John hadn't even tried to call back or made any effort to see Dean after Sam called him to inform him of Dean's condition. That still angered Sam. He would have understood if it was him dying, but not Dean, the prodigy. He thought Dean meant more to his father then that.

Sam decided to rescue the conversation. " I find their relationship odd. It's not weird as much as it is weird for a relationship involving Dean. I mean, they do all the normal couple things such as movies, dinner, but…from I know…it's not physical…Dean never…"

John interrupted. " …never stays in a relationship unless he's getting action."

Sam wasn't aware that his father paid that much attention to Dean's dating habits. John wasn't around for much of his or Dean's teenage years.

"Yeah," Sam acknowledged.

"Dean has always looked for someone he could confide in. He probably found it in Layla."

"But does the person that he choose to fall in love with have to be dying?" Sam blurted out.

John sighed. "Everyone dies at some point," he said softly after some thought. " It always hurts when they leave us, hurts more when we love them, when we have spent our life with them. But it's worth it in the end. Because that joy…the joy they gave us never leaves…"

John trailed off, his silence saying more then his words could ever say as he remembered. Sam had never seen his father so somber and pensive before. It made his father human to him.

"I don't know what's going to happen to Dean when she's gone," Sam admitted.

"Dean will be okay. He's strong."

Sam felt his father was overestimating Dean's strength.

"That reminds me. I stopped with Dean the other day at the grocery store you worked for."

That peeked Sam's interest. " What's going on there?"

"Nothing. From what Dean mentioned, it was exactly the same as when you left it."

That annoyed Sam. He wanted to see the company suffer. " Then why did they fire me if they weren't planning on changing anything?"

John shrugged. " What was their reason for firing you?"

"I supposedly handled the robbery the wrong way. I attacked the guys myself instead of waiting for the police to take care of them."

"Did anyone get hurt?"

"Just the robbers."

"Good boy." Sam felt a welling of pride at his father's words. It felt criminally good. " In any case, that was a shitty bogus reason."

"Tell me about it," Sam mumbled. " They probably couldn't find anything wrong with my performance. My workers adored me because I started paying them a dollar extra, profits were up despite that, and we had far less consumer complaints then we did the month before with the old manager." Sam sighed. " I guess I pissed off someone near the top, someone with power…maybe the lawyer?"

"You could have. It's more likely they were just intimidated by your competence. It makes them look bad, makes them think you are gunning for their job. I remember this time, I was working this job on a constriction sight, shortly after Dean was born and my boss hates me. He…."

As Sam listened to his father prattle on about his evil boss firing him, all he could think about was how it was the first time he remembered actually feeling bonded to his Dad. It was something he wanted more of.

* * *

She was sitting on the porch, rocking back and forth on the wicker swing, appearing to be waiting for them. As soon as Sam had stopped the car, John was out the door and walking up the sidewalk to the house. 

"I knew you would come," Missouri told him, hugging him tightly, when they met on the stairs.

"I know. It's real good to see you."

She pulled away, smiling knowingly. " It's nice to see you alive as well. Come on in."

John glanced at the car to make sure Sam would be all right and he followed her indoors to the living room. She had switched the couch from the last time he had visited, but it was still comfortable for a fold-out bed.

"You found her killer," Missouri stated.

"Dean and Sam found it. I only got there in the end to watch it die."

"It bothered you that you didn't get to kill it."

John shook his head. " That's not really it. It hurt more to see Dean lying lifeless on the ground and Sam over him, stabbing that monster over and over again even after it was dead."

"You didn't think he had it in him," Missouri stated.

"I always knew he had it. I just hoped he never had to find out he was capable of killing another human being."

Missouri took a long sip of her tea. " You didn't come here to discuss this. Why are you here, John?"

John had the suspicion she already knew but wanted to be told anyway. " I had a dream. Mary was in it."

"Which is unusual how?"

He guessed she didn't know. The eye wasn't all seeing. " I have never had a dream with her in it since she died."

" Which is not that strange. Why else do you want to talk about it?"

"It felt prophetic, like she was really there, trying to give me a message."

Missouri's eyes lit up and John saw that she understood what he was saying. " Benevolent sprits have trouble staying in this world because they have no ties on this world other then the ones they loved. The only time they can ever visit this earth is through dreams. If you aren't willing to open yourself up to their presence, you are unable to see them."

"But I wanted to see her. I prayed for years, right after you told me I could see her, that she'd show up. Why now? Why not when I needed her most."

"What, trying to kill yourself isn't when you need her the most," Missouri deadpanned. John flushed. She continued. " I don't think you were ready to face her. You were bent on revenge. It was all you saw. What time and energy wasn't devoted to that was to your boys and trying to stifle your grief. Your mind couldn't let you see her if you were ever going to move forward with your life."

That made sense to John, though he wasn't all that happy with the conclusion. "Maybe I didn't want her to see me because I was ashamed."

"Of what?"

"Of how everything turned out. She would have never wanted revenge. She would have wanted me to be a good father to the boys, wanted…"

Missouri cut him off, laying her on top of his. " You are a good father."

"I'm not. I never been…"

She shushed him. " You have two amazing boys who know the difference between right and wrong, who are successful, who are thriving. Who else could they have gotten it from if not you?"

"It's not me though," John whined. " Sam turned out that way because Dean and Dean…" John trailed off, realizing he didn't know what had molded Dean.

"So you made mistakes, John. Big deal. Parents make them. It's now time you fix them."

"I don't know how."

"No one ever knows…" Missouri responded.

"Where do I start?" John asked, more to himself then to Missouri.

"Where you want your relationship to begin with them."

"Do you have to be so goddamn cryptic?" he snapped.

She smiled at him. " Start with emotions. Stop repressing them, and tell them what you really feel. Only then, can they heal as well."

"Thanks."

The kettle on the stove whistled and Missouri sprung up to grab it. She poured the hot water into the cup and after adding two teaspoons on sugar and one of milk, she walked over to him to hand him his tea.

He took a sip. She had gotten the mixture perfect like always.

* * *

"So you used to be a private investigator?" 

Dean nodded at his interviewer. He was sitting on a bar stool, in the corner of an empty nightclub, with tables surrounding him with chairs piled on top of them. A drink was by his hand though he hadn't yet taken a sip of it, not sure if it was polite or wise to drink alcohol while being job interviewed.

"What did your job entail?"

Dean wished he had thought up his lie better. He had wanted to show that he had experience with violent people and subduing them, but hadn't wanted to lie and say he was a cop. Private investigation was his best option, seeing that he actually did have a license on record, though he never used it. It had been a prop for one of the infamous hunting trips he had taken to New Orleans for Mardi gras. He decided to wing it.

" Normally, I was hired by women who thought their boyfriends or husbands were cheating on them. I would follow them around, trying to get proof of their infidelity. I would then hide out, keeping close to the women when they confronted them about it."

"Did they ever get violent?"

Dean wanted to smile. He had set the bait perfectly. " Yes, they did. I would have to subdue them to make sure no one got hurt."

The guy looked impressed. " Do you have any experience working as a bouncer?"

Dean shook his head.

"That's alright. You're the right height and build. You look intimidating but welcoming enough for people to approach you for help," the man listed. " You're hired."

It was almost too simple. " Thank you."

"You're welcome. Next week, we'll train you so you can be on shift when the college kids come back."

Dean nodded, giving a quick covert glance at the clock. " Thank you for your time," he told the guy as he slipped off his stool.

"It's all mine," the man told him, shaking his hand, and Dean walked towards the exit, shadowed by the interviewer.

He crossed the street, unlocked the car doors, and started the engine, peeling out of there before the next wave of traffic could halt him. The clock had read that it was seven minutes of one, and he had to be at the hospital at that time to pick up Layla. It wasn't too far of a drive, which he was thankful for. He presumed that since college was nearby, they needed reliable care for the constant partiers who didn't know their limits with the drugs.

Layla was waiting by the front entrance when he pulled into the parking lot, leaning against the wall. She didn't look too well though Dean couldn't put a name to what actually looked wrong. He leaned over and unlocked her door to let her in. She plopped down on the seat, and hit the button to recline it.

"Drive," she ordered and Dean hit the gas.

"What's wrong?" he asked when they had to stop at the red light.

"Nothing."

"What's wrong?" he repeated.

She looked over at him. " Nothing…" At his huff of indignation, she added, " It's really nothing. It just annoys me having to go there every week."

The light turned green and the car surged forward. " Don't like your new doctor?"

"He's nice enough. They all are. They are just too optimistic. They keep up coming up with new ideas for treatment, spurred on by my mother. And of course, they don't work. I get my hopes up yet again. They say next time, next time they'll get it right," she sighed. " It's too exhausting for doing no good."

"Then quit," Dean suggested.

Layla grew quiet, appearing to think over his suggestion. " My mother would kill me," she whispered.

"She…" Dean stopped his joke in midsentence, scared of offending her.

" She wouldn't have a chance to," Layla finished for him. She gave him a soft smile. " That was what you were going to say, weren't you?"

"Yeah," Dean admitted.

"You can just say it, Dean. It's inevitable that I am going to die. We don't have to beat around the bush about it," she told him. Dean noticed the way her voice trembled at the end of her sentence.

"We don't but it's easier to pretend it's not happening."

It was a long pause before Layla responded. "You're a good man, Dean."

They were at her motel and Dean pulled into a handicapped spot.

"What do you mean?" Good wasn't a word that Dean often heard. Obsessive, creepy, and slick were more up his ally.

" Most people leave when they find out. They get freaked out, scared, and run, too afraid of something to stay with me. But you're not running; you're dealing with it. You have no idea how much that means to me."

Her words were sincere, Dean knew, because her eyes were welling up in tears. It made him feel special because he was needed. It was a feeling he never realized he missed. " Come here," he whispered.

She leaned over and he hugged her, sating his desire for touch. He wanted to do more but he didn't think it was worth the risk. Plus kissing someone who was crying never ended pleasantly for him.

"Don't leave me," she whispered into his shoulder.

"I wouldn't," he reassured her.

"Please don't," he felt her whisper over and over again. He held her, letting her cry out her fear. Dean knew, that deep down, she was terrified of dying though she always had known it was coming. He knew subconsciously that she longed for someone who could just accept that she was dying, someone who wouldn't fight destiny, and someone who could allow her to do the same. He could be that person. He would be.

"I'm sorry I got your shirt all wet," she told him as she pulled away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

"It's fine. I already had my interview."

"How'd it go?"

"I got the job."

She laughed. It surprised Dean how fast her moods could change. " Nice," she said. Before Dean had a chance to respond or get his brain to comprehend what was happening, she kissed him. She smiled at his dumbfounded look as she got out of the car. " Thanks for the ride."

Dean could only nod and it was only when she got into her room at the motel, did Dean curse himself out for not doing something about it.

* * *

Dean found Sam in the living room, hunched over the end table where a lot of scattered pieces of paper lay, when he got home at nine, after driving a few hours to meet up with his lawyers over his upcoming trial. Sam was focused completely on the documents he was analyzing, not even looking up when Dean walked into the room. For some unexplainable reason, that annoyed Dean, and he moved silently to the back of the room where the arc of candles were placed, and blew them out. 

He heard Sam swear and then a flopping noise as Sam reached for the flashlight they kept on the other side of the couch. He heard the button being pressed in, and the light sprung on.

"You're an asshole," Sam told him, eyes never straying to his, but returning to the papers.

"What's so important?"

"It's just some forms I need to go through."

"For what?" Dean was curious to know why, when he moved closer, his brother shielded the paper with his body.

"Nothing that concerns you."

"So I guess it isn't the electricity or water bill then?"

"No…I mean it is. It's just that it's my money and I am trying to figure out how much I'll left over when it's done."

Dean saw right through it. " Liar. What is it that you are hiding from me?"

"It's nothing, Dean."

Funny, it was the second time today Dean had heard that. He felt it was safe to presume that it wasn't nothing like the first time around. " Then why are you hiding it?"

Sam didn't have an answer, and while he was searching for one, Dean pounced, snatching a few of the papers.

"Hmm…Stanford Law School," he flipped to the next one. " Harvard Law School. Columbia Law School," he handed the papers back to an angry Sam. " It looks like someone wants to go to law school."

Sam glared at him, not responding or giving answers.

"Why were you trying to hide it from me?" Dean asked.

Sam stayed silent.

"I'm fine with you going, if that's why," Dean continued.

"Are you, Dean?" Sam said quietly.

Dean looked at him strangely. " Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

Sam closed his eyes and sighed, reopening them. " Last time, you told it was okay even if Dad didn't approve. But it wasn't with you. You resented me. You hated every second of the paperwork and hated that I actually got accepted…"

"That's not true," Dean butted in.

"Dean, you tried to hide the admission letter from me."

He had. " Maybe I didn't want you to go."

"I don't belong here, Dean. I never have. I'm not like you. I can't just be content with my life the way it is," Sam said wearily.

Dean started laughing. " Do you think I was content, Sam? I would have killed to go to college. But unlike you, I had responsibilities. I couldn't just neglect my family, leaving you to get destroyed by Dad, and leaving Dad to die," Dean's voice was rising slowly into a scream.

"You know what, I didn't want you to go to college. But I let you. Do you think I couldn't have stopped you? Who drove you there because we didn't have enough money for an airplane? Who worked their ass off getting you the financial aid so you could attend your dream school? Who defended you against Dad? Who, year after year, kept you in school when you couldn't find the time to visit or even call us? Who prevented Dad from driving there and dragging your sorry ass home because you are an insufferable brat who has never had to sacrifice anything and can't even thank me for making sure you never had to? Who…?"

Dean stopped to breathe and Sam struggled to find words to put out what he was feeling. He just kept shaking his head back and forth, transfixed by his brother's words.

"I don't care if you decide to go back to college. It's your decision. But I'm not helping you. Find your own way there," Dean finished, slipping out of the room nearly as silently as he had entered it, not giving Sam his chance to respond.

Sam watched him go and with a sigh, got up and threw the papers away, flicking off his flashlight. He knew that Dean would have some problem with him going back to college but the words that Dean threw at him weren't what he expected. But despite Dean's animosity towards the subject, he had made it clear enough that Sam was free to do what he pleased. That pleased Sam though it was shadowed by his self-loathing for what he said to provoke Dean. He should have known that Dean would respond in that manner, and that what he was saying was a bunch of crap brought forth by frustration and fear. Making a vow to righten it in the morning, he walked blindly to his bedroom and collapsed onto the bed.

_She was a pretty blonde, jogging carelessly down the street, bopping her head to the beat of the music in her Ipod. A dog ran beside her, a heavy set Doberman Pinscher, racing with her from lit street lamp to street lamp. Clouds hung in the sky, lighting it from its obstruction of the moon. It was nearing midnight and she had just gotten off from work and she had decided that before bed, she would walk her poor abandoned-feeling dog._

_She reached the end of the street where the wire gates stood closed for the local lumberyard. Out of breath, she walked over to the main building, which was open during the day for the public to buy their construction supplies, and took a seat on one of the benches. The dog sat down on its haunches at her feet, guarding her from the heavy shadows of equipment and rooftops._

_The dog growled. She looked in the direction his muzzle was pointing._

"_There's nothing there, Bruiser," she told him._

_The dog didn't back down, rising to all fours. She watched the hairs on the back of his neck rise. She didn't know what he was seeing but she trusted her dog's instincts. _

"_Let's go," she whispered to the dog, pulling lightly on his collar to get him walking next to her. She reached into the pocket of her sweat pants to shut off her Ipod so she could hear clearly. It was completely silent save for the sound of her steps and the dog's. She walked faster, Bruiser sticking close to her side, sensing her anticipation._

_She couldn't hear, see, sense anything around her, but a voice was nagging her to run, to get away while she still had a chance. She wanted to chide herself for being silly but it was better for her to be safe and be embarrassed later then have something bad happened. _

_She broke out in a run, Bruiser following beside her. She still couldn't hear anything, drowned out from the sound of her feet hitting the pavement and heartbeat echoing through her mind, but she was too scared now to look back and found out if her suspicion was correct. She kept running._

_Somewhere between the third block and fourth block back to her house, she could no longer hear the dog when she glanced over. Worry gripped her and she turned her head to the side to see if her dog had fallen behind. Her body hit something and she bounced back, falling on her butt._

_She looked up. She saw fiery eyes. She screamed. That was all she had time to do before she died._

Sam opened his eyes, blinking at the bright sunlight shining into his window. He threw the sole sheet off him and stood up, walking over to his mirror. He saw an unshaven man staring back at him and he breathed a sigh of relief. It had just been a dream, something concocted by his brain from the millions of memories he had from various hunts. The girl was too similar to every girl he and Dean met in the towns. He could vaguely remember solving a case like his dream once. It had been a fire demon. He remembered it being a nasty creature, but easy enough to kill once you got over the pain of air brushing against the burns it fired off.

He walked into the kitchen to find breakfast already out for him, meaning Dean had already left. It had became a ritual that Dean would run down to the convenience store every morning to get the paper and coffee because no one in their family could survive with it. There was a fresh box of powdered doughnuts on the table and he took one out of the box, lifted the lid of his coffee cup and dunked the doughnut. It was heavenly and he snatched the paper to read through the job openings.

There was nothing of interest but he found his eyes wandering to the pet section. The first few ads were puppies for sale but near the end of the page, was a hurried message:

**" Found Dog: Bruiser, Dobie, on Cedar. At shelter."**

Sam was no longer hungry.

_

* * *

_

_End Chapter 5: Octavarium_

* * *

_

* * *

_

_I never wanted to become someone like him  
So secure, content to live each day just like the last  
I was sure I knew that this was not for me  
And I wanted so much more, far beyond what I could see  
So I swore that I'd never be someone like him _

So many years have passed since I proclaimed  
My independence, my mission, my aim, and my vision  
So secure, content to live each day like it's my last  
It's wonderful to know that I could be something more than what I dreamed, far beyond what I could see  
Still I swear that I'm missing out this time

As far as I could tell, there's nothing more I need  
But still I ask myself, could this be everything?  
Then all I swore that I would never be was now  
So suddenly, the only thing I wanted to become, to be someone just like him


	6. Enter Sandman

__

**An End  
**( or maybe just a new beginning )

He felt his heart beating to the tempo of the music, body throbbing along with the shaking neon lights. When he had thought about it, he just assumed he would have hated it. Too many sweaty bodies on the dance floor, grinding against anything that could move, all senses cut off by the heavy pulsing beat and a trilling female voice, dark lighting, broken only through by the colored lights. But now that he was there to witness it, he understood its appeal. You were allowed to lose yourself. You were a part of mass that was only feeling, never thinking, never worrying. Dean was undeniably drawn to it but he was too scared to not be in control to try it. He was content enough being an observer.

It was his second week working at the nightclub. He had settled into a routine, going to work at eight when they opened, left at two, would drive home, and then crash, sleeping until noon, then getting up to do it the next day. Monday and Tuesday were the only days the club was closed, and he was ecstatic, seeing it was Sunday night, and he was physically exhausted. Hunting had gotten him used to odd hours and taught him to tough through his pain and fatigue, but it didn't make it any easier for him to keep dragging himself to work every night. His only saving grace besides the club being very loud and rowdy was that they had gotten the electricity and water back on at home, and he could drink as much coffee as he wanted throughout the day and his bed had a fan next to it. They were going through a heat wave, the last hurrah before fall came.

He saw a distortion in the crowd, people moving backwards. It was near the outer edge of the center and he moved from the wall and maneuvered his way through, suspecting a fight was starting or had already broke out. One had and the two guys were rolling around on the ground, looking more like they were doing some warped mating ritual then trying to hurt one another. There was a girl hovering near them, screaming at them to stop, and Dean deducted that she was somehow involved with the fight. When Dean saw that both were making an attempt to stand, he moved between them, catching the punch that was indirectly aimed at his face and flipped the guy around, agilely catching his wrists and putting them behind him so he couldn't fight. He could see out of the corner of his eye that one of the other bouncers had subdued the other guy, and he pushed the guy, escorting him out of the club.

The guy didn't resist and Dean returned back to the cool air-conditioned nightclub in record time. Sweat had broken out on his forehead and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. It always made him nervous when he had to kick people out. It wasn't that he couldn't deal with an angry clubber but he was scared he would hurt them. He wasn't all that used to fighting someone who wasn't out to kill him or incapacitate him.

The girl that he had seen with the two guys who had just been thrown out was standing in his corner. She was tiny, black fabric resembling a dress draped over her bony frame, eyeliner too heavy and dark for her pale skin.

" I wanted to thank you for throwing them out," she yelled to him over the music.

"You're welcome."

"They keep fighting over me. I don't like them," she told him.

Dean had no clue why she was telling him that. He just nodded, praying she'd leave him alone.

"But I like you," she stepped closer to him as she said it, voice lowering to a purr. She set her hand on his shoulder. Dean flinched. He felt invaded and he removed her hand. " I don't like you."

"Why not?" she tipped her head to the side, pouting slightly.

Dean didn't feel like answering her question. " Go dance."

"And if I don't want to?"

Dean walked away from her, pretending to see an imaginary fight. She didn't follow. When he returned to his spot, he found her trying to seduce one of the other bouncers.

* * *

_The music began with an arpeggio, done by a soft piano. The girl's arms trailed up her body, forming a circle above her head, before she stepped out to do a spin, rolling up onto Pointe to fall out into a side kick, body arching backwards as she was in the air. _

_The audience clapped, awed by her flexibility and grace. The ballerina gave them a shy smile before letting her face turn back to the stony sorrow her profession was infamous for. It was her first solo as a professional. She had waited for this day for years, dancing behind the prima ballerinas, being only a decoration on stage. It was her chance to shine and she let the music dictate her movements. _

_As the music welled up into the highest notes of its crescendo, she ran across the stage, leaping into a split. She seemed to hang in the air for eternity, but when she landed, it was not with the lightness of an angel, which was what she was impersonating, but with a horrible fall. Her chin, held so high during the jump, dropped, head following, and she tumbled down, the side of her long neck sticking the ground first. _

_The audience heard a horrible snap as they watched in horror and disbelief at what they were seeing. It appeared impossible. The music began to fade away, reaching its dying notes._

Sam opened his eyes and just lay there, staring up at the ceiling. The dreams had been going on for two weeks now, and every morning, he would wake up and read the paper with his coffee to find the person he saw in his dream dead, injured, or had disappeared. He hated having to witness every night, being helpless to stop it because when he woke, it had already happened. He willed himself to get out of bed and get breakfast, knowing that the paper would read the ballerina's name and she just wouldn't be another beautiful face he saw die.

The sizzle of bacon and the clanking of dishes alerted him to the oddity of the breakfast. Both Dean and his father were up, Dean more asleep then awake, gazing in longing at the coffee dripping into the pot across the room from his seat. His father was scrambling the eggs and flipping the bacon expertly, and Sam moved around his father to reach into the refrigerator to get the cold orange juice.

"What's the occasion?" Sam asked, pouring himself a cup of juice.

Dean mumbled something incoherent. John translated for him. "It's Dean's last day as a free man."

"Katie and Jason will get him off," Sam wasn't allowing himself to think anything else.

"They're coming over here later tonight to brief you, right Dean?" John asked, bringing the skillet of bacon over and plopping limp pieces onto everyone's plates.

"Yeah." The coffee had finally stopped dripping and Dean dove for the machine, pouring himself a cup instantly. Sam watched in amazement as he chugged the hot liquid and refilled the cup before sitting down.

"Don't you burn your mouth?" Sam asked.

"It's worth it," Dean replied, words becoming more pronounced as the caffeine took effect.

"Why are you up so early? Didn't you get home," Sam took a quick glance at the clock on the microwave, " six hours ago?"

Dean nodded. " Layla wanted to go to lunch. She had other stuff she needed to do later."

"You aren't going to survive," Sam chided him.

"Thanks for the concern," Dean rolled his eyes. " I'll take a nap."

Sam was ready to believe that when it happened.

"So, Sammy, what's this I hear about talking in your sleep at night?" Dean asked.

Sam swallowed his eggs. " I talk at night?" He stabbed his fork into one of the sausages.

"A bit. Doesn't make any sense," Dean took another scoop of the hash browns and poured ketchup over them.

"Oh."

"Nightmares again?" John asked.

Sam debated telling them the truth. He decided it was better to. " Visions. I keep seeing people being abducted or killed by…things."

"It's probably just old memories resurfacing," Dean quickly replied, almost too quickly, which raised a question mark in Sam's mind.

"No. They're real. I wake up and on the front page is the person I watched die."

"Prove it." His tone was angry. It was like it was something Dean didn't want to face.

"Where's the paper?" Sam asked.

"Living room," John answered, beating Dean to it.

"There will be a story about a ballerina. She will have been performing " Moonlight Sonata" in an angel costume. She will have done a leap and suddenly crash, breaking her neck," Sam told them, leaving the room to get the paper.

He came back seconds later with the paper, and he opened it to the 2nd page, thrusting it in Dean's face. " Her name was Amelia Santana." Sam stormed back to his seat and grabbed another sausage, stuffing it whole into his mouth.

Dean didn't say anything. He just read the article calmly and when he set the paper down, he was looking at Sam, eyes vacant and haunted.

"I want to do something about it. I can't go on like this, watching them be destroyed, knowing I can help them," Sam said.

Dean waited to answer, choosing his words carefully. " We can't."

"Why the hell not? We are the only ones who know they exist, the only ones who can deal with it."

"I know we are," his words were measured, quiet, no energy behind them. " But we can't just…."

"We have a responsibility to them!" Sam shouted.

Dean continued. " We do. But we have one to ourselves to be happy."

"Why is your happiness more important then their lives, Dean? How can you just sit there and condemn them when you have the ability to save them?"

"Maybe I'm sick of being a savior, Sam. Maybe I just want to live for once my life without worrying about other people," Dean snapped back, voice lacking true anger.

Sam turned to his father. " What about you? You're the one who got us involved in this mess. You going to help me find them?"

"I'm not completely healed, " John replied, scrapping the remaining food off his dish into the garbage.

"That's never stopped you before!" Sam yelled.

"Sam, stop being a bitch," Dean growled.

"No. I'm sick of being scared to go to sleep at night. I dread waking up because I'll feel guilty for letting them die. I'm tired…"

"Stop complaining and go out and do it yourself, Sam," Dean interrupted.

"I can't. I'm…"

Dean sighed, very loudly. " What? You're a hunter, Sam. You're not scared of some puny demon or vengeful sprit."

Sam didn't have a response. He swallowed. " Fine. I'll kill it. I don't need either of your help." He grabbed the newspaper off the table and went down the hall to his room to begin the research.

Dean turned to his father whose lips were twitching, trying not to smile.

"What?" Dean asked.

"It's nice to see you boys getting along."

Dean scoffed at his father's sentimentality

* * *

Layla laughed as she watched a green-headed duck waddle across the deck, squawking and making a general ruckus.

"Is it okay I give him bread?" she asked.

Dean nodded and she tore off a corner of one of the loafs in their breadbasket and threw it in front of the duck. The duck picked it up in its beak and promptly swallowed it.

"It's cute," she told him, grabbing the piece of bread she had already broken and slathered her leftover butter on it.

"They hurt."

"Did you try to hand-feed it when you were a kid?" Dean gave an ashamed nod. " Silly kid."

"It didn't look like it had teeth," Dean exclaimed.

"Then why does it hurt?"

Dean shrugged. " Suction?"

Layla laughed, taking a bite of her bread and following it up with a sip of her lemonade. " This is really a nice place."

It was. Dean had heard about the place from somebody at work and it had been worth the hour drive. They were overlooking a pristine blue lake with sailboats on it and seagulls flying overhead, dive-bombing every scrap of food unattended by humans. It was a sunny day and everything just seemed more beautiful because of it.

"Are you worried about tomorrow?" she asked.

"Not really."

She didn't have to say anything. She just gave him the look, one that knew he was bullshitting. He caved.

" I'm sure it will go fine but…I don't want to go to jail."

"You won't. You were under a lot of stress when it happened. They'll take that into account." She reassured him.

"Thanks. That's more then they've been telling me."

"Whose they?" She took another sip of her drink.

"My lawyers. It's funny. I've never met them, talked to them, hell…I don't even know their names."

"Has it been Sam who's been dealing with them?"

"Yeah. It's not that I don't trust his judgment but from what I know, he went to school with these kids. They can't have been lawyers for long." Dean took a swig of his drink. " It makes me uncomfortable."

"Well, do you trust Sam?"

"That's a stupid question," Dean blurted out. " Of course, I do. I…"

She smiled and he realized what a fool he was making out of himself.

"It was rhetorical," she told him.

"Oh…"

The waiter emerged from the kitchen, hoisting a heavy tray in the air with one hand, maneuvering around the tables and chairs on the deck. He lowered the tray low enough to scoop off their plates, and after setting them down gently, walked away to the next table without a word.

"That was rude," Layla commented, wiping the mayonnaise off her hamburger.

"He's busy."

"Enough to not say three words?"

Dean didn't answer, too busy pounding on the bottom of the ketchup bottle to get enough out to cover his fries.

"Going back, I think I would trust my lawyer being Sam more then some friends I never met of his," he said after some time.

"Then why isn't he?"

"He never went to law school. I kind of didn't let him."

Layla was looking at him so intently and the words fell out of him. " Dad went missing right before his interview. I needed his help and when we got back, she killed Jess, his girlfriend. He gave up school to go searching for Dad and to get revenge on her. To keep me company."

Layla digested it quickly. " Who killed Jess?"

Dean wasn't sure how to explain it. " It was a human but not, because she was immortal. She would die and come back in a different body. We met up with her when she was a child. She said she was something we created. Then she attacked and we killed her."

"Can she come back?"

Dean shook his head. " No. We destroyed her soul. Even if she lived, her next bodies would be useless because she couldn't control them."

"Did you know how she was created?"

"Only our father knows. He wouldn't talk about it when I asked him."

"Is it the…?"

"She killed our mother." Dean answered.

"Is Sam going to go back to law school now that it's all over?"

"He's thinking about it. But I don't know if he'll actually do it."

"Why?"

"Sam has always been the black sheep of the family. Now, he feels accepted. I think he thinks Dad and I will hate him if he returns back to college and abandons us once again."

"Will you?" Layla asked quietly.

"No. I'll be lonely but I've gotten used to being alone. And Dad will even be prouder of Sam. I never told him that but he bragged to everyone he knew that his son had gotten into Stanford on full scholarship. Didn't ever show any enthusiasm to Sam over it but…" Dean sighed. " Whatever Sam wants, he'll get. I wouldn't stop him."

"And what do you want, Dean? Will you get to have it?"

The question caught him off guard. " I don't want anything."

"Yes, you do," she answered. Her tone was quiet, not posing an argument but a statement of fact.

"No. I have everything I want right now," he looked right at her, squeezing her hand under the table. She blushed.

"You'll want more someday," she told him.

"I wouldn't."

Layla didn't correct him. Someday he would want answers to why life had to be a certain way. Someday he would want to step out of Sam's and his father's shadows and start wanting to be his own self. But for now, he was not ready. He wouldn't be ready until she left him, she feared.

* * *

Sam didn't want to admit it but he was really looking forward to seeing Katie and Jason again. He hadn't seen them in nearly four years, both of them having been two years ahead of him in school. His friendship with the two had been somewhat peculiar, Jason being his R.A. and Katie, his girlfriend for the two years who took a fondness to him immediately. She had told him he reminded her of her brother at home. Sam remembered that didn't make him too happy to hear. He had had a huge crush on her but she never strayed from Jason. It was when she left, that he started taking interest in Jess, who with a couple of her friends, shared an apartment with him and his roommate.

He had heard through the grapevine that Jason and Katie had broken up when they had got to law school. One of them cheated. He didn't know which one but he knew she was unattached. This made him anxious because he knew this meant he could potentially date her. The visit would be interesting, he knew. He would finally get to see if the feelings he had for her then were just infatuation or were real. Like Dean, he had not seen Jason or Katie before today. He had called up Katie, who specialized in criminal law, the day after Dean got taken, and out of an old favor to him, she agreed to help. Jason had been added later when Katie needed someone who knew something about how individual state laws and rulings worked. Sam hadn't realized they were still in contact with each other, but he reluctantly took the free help.

He glanced out the window, hearing the familiar rumbling of an engine cruising down the street. It was the Impala and Dean pulled into the driveway, and seconds later, after the automatic doors rolled open, the garage. Sam heard the car doors slam, the roll of the garage door closing, and the pounding on the steps as Dean went into the house.

"You look disheveled," Sam commented as Dean walked past the living room. Dean's pants and shirt was wrinkled, hair messy and falling in his eyes, the collar of his polo shirt up in the front.

"I thought I was going to be late."

Sam smirked. " And didn't have enough time to wipe off the lipstick."

Dean's hand flew to his neck and he ran his fingers across it then inspected. " There's no lipstick."

An evil smile crossed Sam's face.

"Real mature, Sammy," Dean said.

Sam shrugged. " Go change. They'll be here any minute."

Dean left the room and Sam turned back to the window, watching the cars speed up, wondering what car would be the one that had her in it. His nerves were getting to him. He was scared she'd think differently of him now that she saw the real him, the side of him he never shared at Stanford of poverty and his messed-up home life.

He heard rather then saw the car pull up and he stood up and stopped, debating if he should greet them at the stoop, opening the door for them, or waiting for them inside, on the couch, not seeming to care. He was thankful he didn't have to choose. Dean was already going outside, hair sopping wet, and Sam took his lead.

Katie emerged from the passenger side, looking as beautiful as he remembered, with her long curly strawberry-blonde hair, and sea-green eyes. She was dressed in a white sundress and she smiled at him when she spotted him. Then Sam saw Jason coming out of the passenger side, and both annoyance and joy ran through him. He was happy to see his old friend but he was annoyed he had to show up, being an obstacle in his perspective pursuit for Katie.

Dean shook hands with Jason and Katie and Sam escorted them into the house and then the living room.

" Do you want something to drink or eat?" he asked.

" Yeah. We missed lunch," Katie told him.

"Cheese and crackers sound okay?"

She nodded, smiling eagerly, and Sam's heart jumped. " What do you want anything to drink?"

"Do you have diet soda?" He nodded. " I'll take that. Jason wants a beer."

At Jason's nod of confirmation, Sam went into the kitchen to gather up the drinks and prepare the food. He could hear Dean chatting away with Jason and Katie, getting to know them. He was envious of Dean's ability to make easy conversation. Sam wished he could do that, not having to keep up pretenses. He wished it were him who was getting to talk to them. He fished the block of cheese out of the refrigerator and began hacking at it with a knife.

"So how have things been going with you?"

He hit the last button on the microwave, starting the melting of the cheese on the crackers to spin around and face Katie. He hadn't heard her enter the room, which didn't surprise him. She was the one person he knew besides Dean who could slink into a room unnoticed.

"It's been alright. I worked for a bit, got fired, now playing chauffeur for my Dad."

" Must be dull after your road trip," she said with a mischievous smile, taking a seat on the counter. Sam noticed that it made her taller then him.

"A little but it's nice to not have to worry about what's coming next."

"Yeah," she watched him pull the steaming-hot plate out of the microwave. " Say, are you ever going to come back and get your degree?"

Sam shrugged. " I'm thinking about it. Why'd you ask?"

She was trying to inch the cracker she wanted from the bottom of the pile. " You'd make a good lawyer. Better then him," she motioned with her chin to the living room where Jason was going over a stack of papers with Dean.

"Really now?" Sam was curious to hear what Mr. Suave as he often thought of his friend was going so wrong.

"He cares too much about the clients, about fairness and all that mumbo-jumbo," she rolled her eyes.

"And why would that be a bad thing?" Sam asked confused.

"You'll understand why when you get your first job as a real lawyer, not as a law school brat like you'll soon be."

Sam just looked at her, not saying anything. It was like her beauty was slowly diminishing in front of him.

"How was law school anyhow?" Sam asked.

"Not as hard as I thought it would be once me and Jason broke up. I finally had some time to actually do my work."

"Why did you break up?"

She giggled nervously. " I got drunk, got a little bit too friendly with this guy. He found out. I broke it off with him."

His respect for the girl had reached new lows for him. He was trying to figure out why he ever thought he could like her. Cheating was one of those things that really bothered him.

"So, I haven't seen Jess around. Did you guys break up?"

Sam blinked, too flabbergasted to speak. He saw out of the corner of his eye, Dean and Jason by the kitchen door, probably checking on what happened to the food. He presumed they had heard what she said from the murderous look in Dean's eyes.

"She died two years ago," Sam said softly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know." She didn't sound very sincere.

"You should have. It was in every paper," Sam heard Jason mumble. Katie heard him and glared.

Sam decided he re-liked Jason.

* * *

While Dean and Sam got acquainted with Jason and Katie, John decided to take a late-night drive to the local shooting range. Technically, he wasn't supposed to be able to use it, but fake I.D.s' had their benefits. It wasn't like he was going to cause havoc or anything. He just wanted to shoot his gun and having no land to shoot it from and visitors at the house impaired it.

He took aim at the target a hundred yards away with his hunting rifle and squeezed the trigger. He felt the gun kick, the strain of muscles to keep it steady, and the glee that came when he squinted across the field to see the nice circular hole right in the center of the cut-out's chest.

It relaxed him and he felt his mind beginning to clear as he fired off more shots. Suddenly, the dilemma that had been racing through his mind didn't seem as complicated to him, and he started running through it again.

He wanted to fix his relationship with the boys. Sam, in the past, resented him. Dean probably did too though he didn't admit to it. He tried to control his boys too much. He tried to make them just like him; Dean became, Sam refused to.

He had put too much responsibility too early on Dean. He tried to make Dean be a parent. Dean, most likely, didn't like that. He harassed Sam over his intelligence. Truthfully, he was jealous and very proud, but Sam didn't know that. Instead the boy thought he hated him.

He wasn't loving enough towards either of them. He only rewarded them when they killed or earned money, all survival stuff. Dean still felt too much responsibility towards him and Sam. He put his value in other people. He never learned to express what he felt. Sam had turned out better. He had gotten a parent through Dean. But at the same time, he was worse off. He never learned to cope, to forgive, and to sacrifice. He wasn't prepared to deal with the cutthroat world where morals had no role.

But that was what John expected when he became a parent. He knew he would make mistakes. He knew he would regret teaching or not teaching them something, and would grieve the fact they would have to learn their lessons the hard way. He sighed, firing his last shot into the head. He took his seat, picking the cartridges off the ground, and putting them in a plastic bag to throw away later. Dean, over time, would learn that he was a good human being and stop blaming himself for everything that went wrong. He would turn his feelings for responsibility from Sam to his own kids with time. John only hoped he'd be around long enough to see the little squirts. And Sam would soon learn to appreciate the things that Dean, and by extension him, taught him, and become truly wise, not just book-smart. He would stop blaming other people for his problems and gain perspective on why things had to be that way when he was a child.

John came to the conclusion that there was nothing he could do to fix the problems he created. Time would mend them. He had just had to be around and be the supportive father, the things he never was. He didn't think it would be too hard.

* * *

_She stared at the phone wistfully from across the room, sitting in her chair around the dining table. The chair faced out and she looked away, eyes closing, hiding disappointment, as the phone finally stopped ringing. _

_Her eyes opened and she saw a shoe, blue with red rimming on the sides. It was expensive and she looked up._

"_I'll help you up," the lady told her and the girl nodded. The lady grabbed her arms and with little help with the girl, hoisted her into the wheelchair._

"_I don't want to go," the girl told her as the lady grabbed her key card and then pushed her out of the motel room._

_The lady patted the girl's bald head. ""No one does…" _

Sam opened his eyes, relieved for the dream to be over with and that it wasn't another death dream. He climbed out of bed and walked down to the kitchen. Grabbing a cup out of the drain, he filled it with water and then chugged it down. He prayed the dream wasn't a premonition of something to come.

He paused by the fan on the way back to his room, letting the cool air chill him, and went back to bed. He lay there for some time, repeating over and over to himself that he didn't want this girl to die. She couldn't…

"_I'm sorry you didn't know sooner."_

_The man smiled at her, squeezing her hand. He was sitting at her bedside, sloppily dressed like he had just woken up. " You couldn't help it."_

"_Still…" she trailed off, looking away from him, up at the abstract paining on the wall._

"_Look at me," he said quietly._

_She appeared to ignore him. _

_He grabbed her chin and lightly rotated her face towards him. Her eyes were wet._

"_You're scared."  
__She nodded.  
_"_I would be too."_

"_I just always knew it was coming but…" she shrugged. " Now that it's here, I want to live. I want to live so much."_

_Dean kissed her forehead. "You will."  
_"_Maybe. But I don't think so."_

"_Why not?" He was beginning to look as miserable as she did.  
_"_It feels real this time. That this is the end."_

"_You're not going to die." His voice was forceful, commanding even, but it was wavering.  
__Layla smiled weakly._

"Fuck."

Those were Sam's first words, and he sat up in bed with a groan. He didn't want to deal with this. He took a deep breath, trying to clear the sleep out of his brain. No ideas on how to handle it came to mind; he could only stare out his window at the sunlit dead grass, dumbfounded.

He heard a knock on his door. "Sam, you need to take your shower. Dean's getting impatient," his father said from behind the door, and Sam climbed out of bed.

Sam knew he had to tell Dean. He owed it to his brother. But he had no idea how to tell him that the women he loved was going to die, possibly at any second. The only relief Sam had was that Dean would get to see her before she died. He didn't have to tell him. But, he knew that he at leastneeded to prepare Dean for the bad news. He knew that Dean realized that Layla was dying but he also believed Dean was ignoring that possibility.

Sam walked into the bathroom, grabbing a towel off of the rack. He would tell Dean, just not now. Dean was under enough stress with his trial in a few hours. Hopefully he could tell Dean before it happened. Maybe then, the grief that would hit at her passing would not paralyze him.

_

* * *

_

End Chapter 6: Enter Sandman

* * *

_Something's wrong, shut the light  
Heavy thoughts tonight  
And they aren't of snow white _

Dreams of war, dreams of liars  
Dreams of dragon's fire  
And of things that will bite


	7. Stormy Weather

**An End  
**(or maybe just another beginning)

****

Dean always thought that the worst part of the hunt was the waiting. He hated how he would have to lie hours in the dark in uncomfortable positions, waiting for something to appear. Every noise put him on edge, adrenaline flooding his veins every time he heard the squeak of a step, and then annoyance when he charged forward, gun or weapon up to find nothing there. He found that being that on edge and anxious was more painful for him then the eventual struggle and kill, even with all its ripped mutilated flesh and fresh bruising.

He found it funny how much his old life resembled his new as he waited for the judge to come back into the room with his verdict. He tapped his foot impatiently, closing his eyes because he had nothing better to do or see. It was going on an hour and the room had stayed as stony silent as it was when the police's lawyers finished their argument on why he deserved two years in jail. Dean admitted they put up a good argument and it did scare him that he could be sent there because of all his previous misdemeanors, but at the same time, he just wanted to laugh at the sheer stupidity of the trial. He didn't deserve time in jail. He didn't hurt anybody or made them fear for their lives. He didn't take anything or fraud somebody. He just roughed up some police officers who had drawn guns on him for no good reason and proceeded to try to subdue him without telling him what was going on. None of them ended up with permanent damage. All should be forgiven.

He looked across the room at Sam who was staring off into space. He followed his brother's gaze to the opposing lawyers. They looked sharp, clean lines in the man's suit, heels on the young woman with just the right height to make her look imitating without making her some fetish fantasy. Both of them were in their early 30s, not that much older then Dean or his own lawyers, but it was more like light years away in maturity. They had their acts together. They wielded power. Dean could read the longing in Sam's eyes to be just like them. He made a mental note that if he wasn't given jail time, he'd start working on the paperwork to get Sam the money to go to Stanford. It was only fair since he took him from that dream once before.

His father was next to Sam, face down. It looked to Dean like he could be praying. He looked very nervous and Dean felt guilty for putting his father through this. He didn't know how to make it up to him besides next time, not flipping out on the cops.

The door opened with a ceremonious bang, and everyone in the small room looked to the judge, who walked to the center of the big table, and sat down slowly.

The judge began reading off the charges in technical jargon that Dean didn't understand nor cared to understand. He prattled on and Dean zoned it for the part that read his sentence.

"I pronounce the defendant…" He paused, probably to get the maximum rise of the spectators, " guilty."

Dean shut his open mouth before he swore or said something nasty at the judge. He suddenly felt cold and a desire to scream or cry, maybe both.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. It didn't offer him any comfort.

"The minimum punishment for this crime is 2 years of jail time," Dean didn't need reminding, " However, given the circumstances, I recommend the defendant be given a lighter sentence of thirty hours of community service."

Dean was relieved to hear it and he exhaled, thanking every god he knew of for granting him such good luck. He heard the lawyers and judge leave the room, probably to argue out the technical details of his community service, and he stood up.

"Let's get out of here," he told his brother and father, and they followed him, sparing them all the awkward conversation and hugs that were customary.

They exited the courthouse and Dean was amazed at how bright it was outside. They had had to park the car a mile away in a parking garage and the family started making the long trek. Normally it would had annoyed Dean, but he was just happy to see the sun and feel it on his face.

"I didn't see Layla there," Sam commented from behind him. "Didn't want her to see you like this?"

"Nah…doctor's appointment."

Dean didn't see Sam's worried expression. " Is there something wrong with her?"

"No," Dean stepped off the sidewalk to avoid an aggressive passerby. " It's a check-up, she ending her radiation and all."

"Are you going to see her later tonight?"

"No. Why would I be?"

"Uh, you have the night off, you got out of going to jail, why wouldn't you want to see her?"

"It sounds like someone wants me out of the house tonight," Dean turned around, smiling wolfishly.

"Maybe," Sam looked at his feet.

"Going to bang that lawyer chick of yours?"

Sam gave him a disapproving stare at the lewdness.

"She doesn't deserve you," Dean told him.

"I know."

"She is hot though…" Dean shrugged. " I'll call Layla up. See if we can do anything."

"Thanks."

Dean smiled back at his brother and turned around.

* * *

Sam had no intention of seeing Katie. It was just the perfect excuse to get Dean to see Layla and he didn't even have to think it up. He still hadn't figured out a way to tell Dean. He thought about it all through the trial and every time he rehearsed the conversation in his mind, he would panic the minute he got to telling Dean. And when he fought through his wave of nausea and told Dean, the look that his brother got on his face made him want to die. But every time in the real world, he spoke to Dean, he was overwhelmed, drowning in his guilt for hiding such an important secret for his brother. Either way, he was forced into being miserable. He knew that his actions were selfish. He didn't have the courage to do anything about it. He knew If their roles were reversed, he would want Dean to tell him if Jess was going to die. But Dean was always the stronger of the two of them, the one who always did the right thing.

Sam sighed, grabbing the remote off of the floor. He hit the on button and flickered through the channels. There was nothing on that wasn't soap operas or talk shows, and he shut the TV off.

"Off to see Layla?" Sam asked as Dean passed by the living room.

"Yeah. It was weird, didn't even have to ask her on a date. The minute I called, she asked me to come over to hang out," Dean shrugged. Sam felt ill but managed to give a somewhat encouraging smile.

"Have a nice date."

"You too," and with that Dean was gone and Sam cursed himself out for not getting the guts to tell his brother the real reason Layla was calling. Something inside him told him that Layla suspected she would be dying soon. It was just the way Dean kept paraphrasing their conversations as being odd and out of the ordinary. It bothered Sam that Dean wasn't aware of the ominous undertones that Sam was sensing but then again, Sam knew what he had to be looking out for.

"What's bothering you?" His father's gruff voice floated to his ears and Sam looked up to see his father staring at him, beer in hand, decked out in cut-off shorts and a ratty oversized t-shirt.

"Nothing. I'm just thinking of some stuff."

"Does it have to do anything with some vision of yours?"

Sam shook his head.

It was like John saw right through his lie. " You can't stop them from dying, others from feeling pain. It's the natural order of things."

"It's not like that," Sam told him.

"Then what is it?"

"If you could stop it, would you?"

John thought about it for a second. " There is no way to stop death. We're not God…"

"I stopped Dean from dying," Sam interrupted.

"And now he lives a cursed life," John interjected softly.

Sam had never thought about it in that manner, or never allowed himself to think of his actions as anything but unholy. " What if you knew ahead of time that something was going to happen? And you had the ability to stop it."

"I would want to try my hardest to prevent it. But Sam, you need to ask yourself: Was it inevitable? Is it worth it, inferring with the will of whatever thing runs this world?"

"I don't know if it is," Sam whispered.

John walked around the couch and took a seat on the armrest of the chair. " What is this really about?"

Sam found himself spilling his guts. " It's not that I want to save anyone, I know I can't, but what if I can save someone else from feeling pain? What if I could tell them that someone they love is going to die? So they're prepared…and…"

"No one is ever prepared, not even the ones who know it's coming. You may spare them a little pain but they're losing much more then they gain, knowing."

Sam didn't ask what his father meant. It wasn't important. " So, don't tell him?"

He could see his father's mind working, trying to put into place what he was talking about. Sam prayed he wouldn't, and his father answered with a shrug. " Do what you believe is best."

His father's words of Dean living a cursed life echoed through his brain and it made him unsure to trust his judgment.

"What if I don't know what's best?" Sam asked.

"Then you do what you can."

* * *

After a knock, she opened the door, dressed in baggy tan jeans, thermal shirt, and to Dean's amusement, fuzzy purple slippers.

"Nice slippers," he commented, following her into the motel room.

She shrugged, unconcerned. It made Dean feel content to know she was comfortable enough with him to not dress up and put up an image.

The motel room was like every other motel room he had ever stayed in; only this one didn't have water stains on the ceilings and suspicious white stains on the bedding. Layla and her mother's suitcases were in the corner next to the TV, propped open and empty, clothes instead spilling out against the wall, over and around empty pizza boxes and garbage bags.

"I apologize for the mess," she told him, returning from the kitchen with a cheap beer in one hand, a glass of water in the other for herself. She handed it to him and he twisted off the cap.

"It's fine. Not any worse then our house."

"Still…" she wrinkled her nose. " I should have cleaned up."

"Then why didn't you?" Dean took a seat on the unmade bed.

"Too lazy," she smiled, sitting next to him. " It'd look better if we could get the garbage bags out of here."

It didn't make sense to Dean why she couldn't just do it. So he asked, " Any reason why you can't?"

She rolled her eyes. " Stupid doctor orders. I'm not supposed to be around people who could be sick. So my mother takes it to mean I can't leave and no one is allowed in because they may contaminate me," she sighed. " So, yeah, I didn't really have a doctor's appointment today. Sorry."

It didn't bother Dean in the least bit that she lied. He was more concerned about other matters. " Is it okay that I'm here, then?"

She chuckled at the worried look on his face. "It's fine. My mother left town a few hours ago to meet up with some alternative medicine crackpot healer. She wouldn't be back until sometime tomorrow."

Dean smirked. " How rebellious."

"Boredom does that," she scooted up the bed to set her empty glass of water on the nightstand.

"And me?"

Layla followed through with his plea for validation. " And you." She smiled at him. " Anyhow, since we can't have some wild party here to celebrate you getting off, do you want to watch a movie?"

Dean could have thought of things he rather do, but a movie was right up there with them. "What do you got?"

"Hmm… " She got on her knees and leaned over to snatch the yellow bag of videos off the drawers. " I know what you did last summer, Jason X, Nightmare…" she stopped reading off the titles and looked at him. " I take it you aren't fond of horror movies."

"They can be a little too close to reality at times," Dean admitted.

"What about Scary Movie 2? I heard it was really bad."

"That's fine," Dean shrugged. She beamed as she took the tape out of the case and popped it into the VCR. Grabbing the remote, she plopped back down on the bed next to Dean, grabbing his hand.

"Just if it gets scary."

Dean didn't think she needed an excuse.

* * *

_The drapes were open. She didn't notice as she went through the motions on the TV, thrusting her hands into the air and jumping in place. She looked like a fool, but a cute one, dressed in a plaid button-down shirt and polka-dotted boxers. _

_People stopped as they walked on the streets to pause and stared at her aerobic routine. Some laughed, some seemed mortified for the girl, so clueless that she had an audience, and all except for one man walked away after some time. He just plunked down on a bench, and watched her. _

_He stayed that way until the TV program ended, and she wiped her sweaty forehead on her shirt, and took a swig out of her water bottle, out of viewing range of the window. He was gone when she returned back to her living room and went to shut the curtains, keeping the window open._

_The curtains grew darker as she shut out the lights of her apartment. The cars drove down Main Street, honking, lights flashing everywhere, and the drapes of her window fluttered open and shut as the wind blew through her window. _

_There was movement in the apartment. Only snapshots of motion but there was a man approaching a girl who stepped back, a lunge on his part. girl falling backwards. With the next flutter of the curtain, nothing could be seen but the white wall of the other side of the room. _

Sam's neck hurt and he opened his eyes. His head was resting on the armrest, higher then the rest of his body, which was sunk into the couch, and he groaned, sitting up. He leaned his neck to both sides and then reached his fingers back there to massage the tense muscles.

"What time is it?" he asked his father who was sitting in the armchair, reading a book. Sam noted it was Hemingway.

"Around nine. Why?"

"She's not dead…" Sam mumbled, then laughed at the realization. He could save her. " I'm taking the car."

"Go ahead." He sounded disinterested. John went back to reading his book and Sam went to Dean's room to get the keys to the Cordoba.

He was on the road a few minutes later and he floored the gas, heading for Main Street as fast as he could. It was the only street he knew of that had a steady stream of traffic and park benches on the sidewalk. He didn't know if it had apartments but it thought it was a safe bet. College students needed housing, and they would want it in places close to the college or food places so they didn't have to walk too far.

He didn't have a plan. There was no time that was indicated in his vision for when the guy and her were in the apartment together. It was near her bedtime but college students, which looked to be about her age, didn't exactly understand that notion. She was doing aerobics on the TV. If it wasn't her own video, it could have been a TV program, which narrowed down the time periods, but he never watched FIT TV or had any desire to do so, which made their information useless.

He pulled the car into a two-hour parking spot, and got out of the car. All the stores were still open on Main Street and he could see college students, advertised by their sweatshirts, buzzing about, coming out of the pizzerias and entering bars. It made him slightly nostalgic and jealous because he never went out with his friends on a regular basis. He was too busy with schoolwork, trying to prove to everyone else and himself that he deserved to be on full scholarship, that being from a backwater town in Kansas didn't make him just as brilliant as his rich friends. It was only in the final two years that he realized it didn't matter. He may have been living the life he always wanted for himself but he wasn't fully enjoying it. He started making friends. His grades only got better the more social he got, which was a shock to him.

Sam pulled himself out of his thoughts, spotting a park bench on the other side of the street, and he darted across the street, cutting off a coming car. He got honked at and then flipped off. It didn't matter to Sam. Something told him it was the right bench. The brick building it overlooked was barren looking, exterior dulled by age, and there were various color curtains in the windows, indicating it had apartments in it. Sam took a seat on the bench, and pulled out the book he had stashed in his back pocket, and began to read, eyes looking up every few minutes to see if any of the curtains had opened up.

* * *

"This is boring."

Dean looked over at Layla who was curled up next to him, head leaning against his chest. "Just realizing that?"

"I was hoping it'd get better," she responded, moving her head off him and sitting up straight, Indian style next to him. She reached for the remote at the end of the bed to shut off the video and then tossed the remote onto the drawer.

"Any other brilliant plans for our night?" Dean asked.

She smiled and Dean felt a spike of fear and anticipation by the mischievous look on her face. " I have ideas." She leaned over and kissed him softly, pulling away when he tried to kiss her back. "Sounds good?"

"Yeah," he whispered before she returned to kissing him. He pulled her closer to him, hands slipping under the fabric of her t-shirt to cradle the small of her back. He could feel its valley, from the bumpy ridge of her spine to the sharp indent of her tailbone. It made him realize just how frail she was and he pushed her gently away.

The look in her eyes was hurt and confused as she kneeled on the bed in front of him. Her lips were red, hair mussed, shirt ridden up just below her belly button. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"I'm not sure this is okay," Dean said softly. He knew he looked like a fool. He should have wanted this but it wasn't feeling right.

"Why?" She sounded angry. Dean didn't understand why she would be.

"You're not supposed to be seeing anyone. You're sick. I can get you inviting me in for a movie, maybe making-out, but…sex…no…"

Layla interrupted him. " Do you always make the assumption that someone is planning on sleeping with you?"

Dean blushed. He needed a comeback. " Were you?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly. " Did you not want to sleep with me?"

Dean didn't answer.

"Is it because I'm not pretty enough for you?" she said angrily, running her hand across her baldhead. "Does the sight of me disgust you, so much that you can't bear to touch me? Is it…"

It dawned on Dean why she was reacting the way she was, and he hugged her, quieting her instantly. " I think you're beautiful," he whispered into her ear. "Even if you have no hair and are bony or whatever."

"Then why?" she looked up at him, all wide-eyed and innocent looking again.

"I'm scared that I'm going to hurt you…" Dean began.

"I'm not going to break," she interrupted.

"I know but I don't want to be the one who gets you sick all over again."

"I'm always sick, Dean."

Dean kissed her on the forehead. " I know."

"We can't not do things because they may harm us."

"True."

"Please, spend the night…nothing has to happen, just…" Layla paused. " …Stay, be with me."

It weirded Dean out how far their gender roles had reversed and he was being the one persuaded for sex. He made a mental note to himself to figure out why he wasn't being himself, and in response to Layla's request, kissed her, giving her the answer he knew she wanted.

As they kissed, Dean tried to lose himself, trying to forget his nervousness and suspicion, trying to allow himself to give into the sensations. But the feeling of something not being right still nagged at him. The way she kissed him was too aggressive, the look in her eyes when they pulled apart for air too needy, and the way she stripped out of his clothes, too desperate. It reminded Dean of someone who was being chased. They were so scared of dying that they would try to outrun the monster instead of facing it.

It was only when it was done, and she lay pressed naked against his side, his arm thrown around her shoulder, did he realize why he hadn't wanted to sleep with her. Because when he looked at her, he knew that he loved her and that when he lost her, it would kill him. He thought that if he hadn't got involved with her on such an intimate level, it would hurt him less when she passed. But what was done was done, he had fun, and he had no regrets.

* * *

Dongs of bells in the church tower across town shook Sam out of his sleepy stupor and he jerked up his head to stare up at the apartment. He didn't know how long he was asleep or just daydreaming but he prayed that he hadn't missed the murder.

He saw a girl walking around her apartment. He couldn't be sure if it was the same girl as his dream because she was so distant but she appeared to have the same hair color. He glanced to his left and saw a person walking alone, directly parallel to the bench. He seemed suspicious to Sam and he wondered if the presumed killer had been sitting next to him while he slept. Sam tracked him visually as the guy crossed the street and went into the door that led to the stairwell to that apartment.

The curtains were closed when Sam looked up at the apartment building, and he watched the wind blow them back and forth, like wisps of smoke. Sam stood up, putting the book back in his back pocket, and he dashed across the street, not bothering with the crosswalk because all the traffic was stopped by the lights. He flung open the door to the stairwell and with a soft exhale, crept quietly up the stairs. He knew he couldn't perform his usual hunt ritual of busting into the place and engaging the demon or sprit or in this case, human, in a fight. Dean wasn't there to back him up if it went wrong. No, he needed the element of surprise, especially since it was a human and therefore, capable of plotting and making decisions.

He went up two flight of stairs and paused by the single door that led into the apartment, pressing his ear against the door to see if he could hear a struggle. It was silent, and Sam worried that he had gotten the wrong apartment. He had just assumed she was on the second floor because there were three floors to the building and her window wasn't near the roof or near ground level. There was still no noise that he could hear from inside the apartment when he checked for the second time and he decided he just needed to trust his rationalizing skills.

He twisted the doorknob and found it unlocked. No girl in their right mind would forget to lock their door and Sam snuck in, feeling a sense of accomplishment. He shut the door behind him, locking it, and just stood there, listening for a source of noise.

He heard running of water. It was a heavy noise and he made the assumption it was from a bathtub filling. He moved closer into the apartment, heading for the living room. The curtains were still fluttering from the wind and Sam noted the speckles of something on the white carpet. He couldn't see what it was nor did he dare to bend down in the middle of a room to find out, but he deducted it was either mud or blood. The only thing that was odd about the room, he noticed, was the way the pillows were strewn around on the floor. They were nowhere near the long L-shaped couch the girl owned, and were in a random pattern.

Sam decided to follow the noise, which led the only room that had any lights on, the bathroom. He crept alongside the wall, watching the ground for shadows of people and keeping every one of his senses open, pausing every time something spooked him.

The bathroom was the size of a large closet and Sam saw that the door was ajar. He set himself flat against the wall and peered inside. He saw a man by the bathtub, and a girl leaning over into the bathtub. His hand was pressed against her skull and it appeared to Sam that he was holding her under and she wasn't putting up much of a fight. Sam wished at that moment he had taken the direct route and had barged in.

He slipped in through the crack of the door and before the guy had a chance to see what the noise was, Sam was on the guy, using his weight as a battering ram to slam the guy into the plaster of the shower wall. In one fluid motion, while the man was still surprised, he grabbed the girl and dragged her out of the water, setting her on the cold floor of the bathroom. He hoped that she would regain consciousness and start sputtering out the water herself because he had the killer to deal with. The guy appeared to be thinking coherently again because he took a swing at Sam who just sidestepped him, kicking him in the stomach, making him fall backwards into the tub, which was what Sam wanted. The guy would be immobile, legs caught outside the tub. Sam looked around for something heavy and found it in a compartment of make-up. He grabbed it off the sink and whacked the guy over the head two or three times until the man fell unconscious.

Sam sat down next to the girl who was beginning to cough, and helped her sit up, hitting her back until she managed to spit out most of the water she had swallowed.

"You okay?" he asked her.

"How did you get into my apartment?" she asked, sidestepping his question.

The girl was smart. " Whomever that guy was left it unlocked."

"And how did you get to saving me?"

"I saw…" Sam changed his mind about what he was going to say. " Can't you just be happy that I saved your life?"

The girl shrugged. " I'm happy. Just a bit curious to how you ended up here, that's all." She climbed to her feet. " I'll call the police."

Sam nodded, and he plunked down the lid of the toilet, taking a seat on it to watch the killer, making sure he didn't wake up until then.

* * *

The door slamming woke Sam up, and he threw off his comforters. The room was cold and Sam maneuvered around the pile of clothes on his floor to the window. There was dew on the ground outside and he cursed, slamming the window shut. He hated September. It switched too often and quickly from nice warm weather to chilly fall weather. The alarm clock in the corner read 11:23 and Sam tapped the switch to shut the alarm on the clock off, and went out to the kitchen to see what the commotion was.

Dean was sitting in the kitchen, chair tipped back far enough to dump him, head hanging upside down. The coffee was dripping into the pot across the room, and Sam took a seat on the counter.

"Rough night?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Probably better then yours was though."

Sam looked down to his right elbow where a huge purplish bruise had taken residence. " Took down a disgruntled killer boyfriend."

Dean sat forward, bringing the front legs of the chair back to ground. " I got laid."

Sam looked at his brother surprised. Dean said it so causally, so free of his trademark lazy grin and any emotion. All Sam could see was a haunted look in Dean's eye. It made Sam feel ill.

"What's the problem with that?"

"None. It was good, real good. Just…" Dean sighed, pushing himself out of his chair to trot over to the sink to pull out a mug to fill with his freshly brewed coffee. " I just have this feeling that something bad is going to happen now."

Dean took a sip of his coffee and Sam stared at his brother anxiously. He was internally debating over telling Dean when Dean spoke, " You think I'm being stupid."

Sam shook his head. " No. Your instincts are usually right."

Dean nodded, taking another sip. " Okay." He walked over to the freezer and pulled out a container of frozen macaroni and cheese. He grabbed a spoon and set out to scraping it into a bowl to microwave. " Say, you haven't seen anything having to do with Layla, have you."

Dean turned to look at Sam whose eyes seemed transfixed on the spot right above Dean's shoulder. He looked scared, Dean thought, and he turned back to his noodles, picking up the container and setting it into the microwave.

" On second thought, if you did, don't tell me."

"Why not?" Sam asked.

Dean hit the start button on the microwave and turned to face Sam. "I don't think I want to know."

Sam just stayed silent, staring up at his brother who gazed back, seeming to read every thought that passed through Sam's head. The microwave buzzed and Dean hit the button to open the microwave.

* * *

_End Chapter 7: Stormy Weather_

* * *

_

* * *

_

She looks around for me  
Don't you know i'm always gonna be here  
She doesn't wanna leave  
I'm afraid of stormy, stormy weather  
There's nothing i can do, there's nothing you won't do


	8. Our Farewell

**An End  
**(or maybe just another beginning)

Dean read the newspaper with one eye on the paper, scanning the story of the upcoming trial of a twice-convicted sex offender, and the other on his cell phone, sitting on the TV. Every time it buzzed, interacting with the signals of the satellite, his head shot up, and then fell as he realized the phone wasn't ringing. It had been three days since he had seen Layla, three days since they last had any communication. Normally, this would have not bothered him. He would have been thankful, in fact. He didn't like having all the girls whom he only intended to have one-night stands with calling him because all they did was bitch and be all emotional when they knew from the get-go what Dean was asking for. Layla was different in that regard. With work, they didn't get to see each other every day like they had in the summer, but he talked to her at least once a day usually on accident. Neither of them expected each other to call but both ended up doing so, just to have someone to complain to.

The three-day period was beginning to gnaw at him, making him both worried and anxious. He didn't know why she hadn't called him. If she was sick or had to go away for treatment, she would have called him already, he knew, and every time he called her motel room, the phone just kept ringing like no one was home, or maybe just no one was answering, which occurred to Dean when he had drove to work one day and took the long way around town to pass her motel room. Her car was outside the room and the garbage had piled up outside, inferring she was still there and had been for quite some time without going out.

Dean was pissed off and confused to why she was ignoring him. He didn't get a fight with her. The only thing different to their relationship was that he slept with her and now she was ignoring him. If that was the reason, he found it very stupid and childish, and if she was overreacting over something that she instigated, it was best that she avoid him and that their relationship fall apart because he couldn't deal with immaturity any longer. But he didn't think it was the reason and she meant too much to him to break it off with no good stab at reconciliation. Sighing, Dean crumpled up the newspaper and stood up, walking over to the TV to pick up his phone. He dialed the number for the motel and then got switched over to Layla's room. The phone rang and rang, and Dean hit the end call button.

"Still haven't gotten through to her?"

Dean looked over at Sam who was standing in the doorway, trying to slide on his sneakers without untying them. " How do you know about that?"

Sam smiled, bending down to start unknotting his shoelaces. " You always have your cell phone next to you and every time I use the internet, you get…I don't know…agitated?"

"You're on for most of the day."

"Just researching which law school will most likely accept me."

Dean nodded. " I'll begin working on your financial aid papers when you pick."

"You don't have to…" Sam told him.

Dean just shrugged, turning away from Sam to look out the window. "It's fine."

Sam stared at his brother's pensive expression. " You should go see her."

"Why? She deserves her space if she needs to think things through."

Sam sighed, aggravated. " Just do it, alright?"

Dean turned to face Sam who had since got on his shoes and was putting on his coat. " A hunch?"

"Something like that," Sam said. Dean noticed his brother's eyes were adverted, not looking at him but at the door. "You'll regret it, I think, if you don't." Dean nodded, accepting his brother's advice and Sam escaped out the front door. Dean watched him get into the car and peel out of the driveway. Sam's aversion to him was slowly grating on his nerves, making him more and more curious to what his brother was hiding, and Dean went into his room to get the keys to the Impala.

* * *

She sat in the plastic chair, arms crossed, her blonde bangs hanging in her angry eyes. She looked so different from the jubilant energetic girl Sam had seen in his dream and the sickly women he had rescued. He took the seat next to her.

"Feeling better?" he asked her.

"You're late."

"I'm sorry if I held you up," Sam apologized.

She chuckled sardonically. " You would have if they freakin' did anything on time around here."

"Police never are. Always too early or too late."

" Which way do you prefer it?"

He turned to look at her. She was looking straight ahead, seeming to not pay any attention to him, but he could see how her eyeball would flicker for a second to read him and see his reaction. "Late."

"So are you a bad boy?" She finally turned to look at him, a coy smile on her lips.

"I don't think I am."

"Then why did you break into my apartment?" she asked innocently.

Sam growled. " I already told you. I was saving you life. I…"

She interrupted him. " I was referring to how you knew I needed saving."

" I told you I saw it outside…"

"You were looking through my window, watching me. A little voyagerish', don't ya think?"

"Whatever." Sam knew his remark was childish but he didn't know what else to say. He was embarrassed about being essentially caught. "Do you have the story down?" He asked, lowering his voice, being cautious of the receptionist.

"Yeah. No worries." She took a quick glance at her watch. " Hopefully they'll call us soon."

"Why? Do you have class later?"

She nodded. " Fashion Design then Calculus 4."

The calculus 4 made up for the image that went through Sam's brain at hearing that she took Fashion Design. It showed she had some brains and wasn't a ditzy airhead.

"What year are you?"

"Sophomore…Say, why are you asking so much about me?"

Sam rolled his eyes. " I just asked what classes you had and what year you are. It's called friendly conversation."

"It just seems very stalker-like to me."

Sam sighed. " I'm not your ex-boyfriend."

"No. You're taller then him."

She smirked at his exasperated expression.

* * *

The motel's parking lot had only two cars in it, the receptionists and a Honda he didn't recognize. Layla's car was nowhere in sight. Dean parked the car behind the other row of motel rooms and stepped out, walking quickly to Layla's room. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and began picking the lock. He was thankful that the motel was cheap and hadn't upgraded to swiping cards. Shouldering the door, he pushed his way in and locked the door behind him, turning on the lamp in the corner.

The room didn't look much different except that the beds were made and the clothing was piled and folded in the open suitcase. The remotes sat upon the TV and when Dean peaked into the bathroom, there were full bottles of fruity sample bottles of shampoo and conditioner and a freshly wrapped bar of soap. Dean concluded Layla had left at least a day ago and planned on returning since all her belongings were still in the room.

He heard a click and he spun around to watch the button on the doorknob pop out to unlocked. He didn't have enough time to hide and an older woman walked into the room. Dean recognized her as Layla's mother. Dread filled his stomach, not only having to face a woman who despised him, but also at the absurdity of meeting her there. Something had to be wrong for her to be visiting.

"How'd you get in here?" she spat out, key dangling from her hip where her hands were placed.

Dean considered his options for the answer" Picked the lock." He smiled wolfishly at her, deciding that if she wasn't going to be polite to him, he didn't have to bother being so.

"I can call the police on you."

Dean shrugged. " Do it. I'll be out of here before they get here."

She stared at him, thinking about something, and she walked over to the corner and squatted, pushing down the top of Layla's suitcase.

"Where is she?" Dean asked.

She didn't answer him or look at him. She continued patting the clothes, trying to get them far enough down so she could latch the suitcase.

"She isn't answering my calls. Is something wrong with her?" Dean tried again.

She latched both of the locks, and she picked up the suitcase, prepared to leave. Dean stepped in front of the door.

"Please just tell me."

Her eyes narrowed, mouth wrinkled into a frown. "Why can't you just leave my family alone?" she told him, stepping around him. Dean backed up, doorknob digging into his spine.

" Just tell me if she's okay," Dean said.

"How can she be okay when you killed her?"

Her angry tone made him confused and he wondered with despair if she had died and that was why she wasn't responding to his calls. He would refuse to believe it until she told him otherwise. "Are you referring to that preacher dude' because seriously, I am sorry he picked me over her and…"

"No. I wasn't," she interrupted.

Dean swallowed hard. " Is she…dead?"

The expression on her face was flabbergasted and offended, and Dean felt relief.

"Just about. She wouldn't be lying in the hospital, fighting for breath, if not for you. You and your…"

Dean interrupted her. " She's alive?" He couldn't hide his smile. "What hospital?"

"It's none of your business. I don't want her seeing you."

"So you're going to allow your daughter to die without seeing her boyfriend and best friend?"

Layla's mothers' expression fell and Dean saw that his words had gotten to her. He continued. " It's not your choice to who your daughter chooses to spend her last moments with."

Layla's mother took a deep breath before finally answering. " Lawrence Memorial."

"Thanks," Dean stepped out from the door and opened it for her. " Ladies first," he said in his most charming voice.

She glared at him, and Dean followed her out, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

Sam jerked the steering wheel to the left, just barely making the turn, and he maneuvered the car out into the right lane before the car in the other lane collided with them.

"You're a horrible driver," his passenger commented, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

"Next time, don't tell me where your turn is when I already passed it," Sam responded, taking another turn.

"Well, sorry that I don't know my way around this town so well," she huffed. "You live here. You should have known."

"I just moved here too, Kari!"

She just shrugged. Sam noticed she didn't even try to make amends with him. He found that rude but he didn't expect anything but that from a 19-year old girl.

His phone rang and keeping one eye on the road, he leaned down to snatch it off the floor of the car. He flipped open the lid, sitting back straight-up, and got back in his own lane. " Hello."

"It's Dean."

Sam clutched the cell phone a bit tighter. He already knew what Dean was calling about. He tried to keep his voice level. " What's going on?"

"Layla's sick. I'm on my way to the hospital right now."

"Do you want me to…"

"No." Sam heard fuzz on the line as Dean exhaled. " I need to do this myself."

"You sure? I can be there in the hour." He could see Kari out of the corner of her eye, rummaging through her school bag, appearing to be looking for a textbook. She was pretending to be uninterested in his conversation but he knew she was listening, appraising it.

"You don't know even what hospital I am going to."

"True." The traffic light in front of them was on yellow and Sam stopped the car at the intersection, allowing it to turn red.

"I'll be fine, Sam. She's fine. She isn't going to die on me, if that's what you are worried about."

Both of the boys knew that wasn't true but neither was brave enough to admit that. Sam conceded. " Alright. Do you want me to tell Dad when I get home?"

"That would be helpful. I don't know how long I am going to be and I have work tonight."

"Okay. Good luck."

"Why do I need luck?" Dean asked, sounding confused. Sam didn't know if it was real or said that way on purpose.

"You already know," Sam said. " Bye." He hit the end-call button and set the phone on the floor.

"What was your brother calling you about?" Kari asked.

He had forgotten she was in the car. " It's none of your concern."

"It's bothering you."

That was fairly perceptive of her. It annoyed him instantly. " And why does that involve you?"

"I'm in the car with you. You're driving. I don't want to die."

Sam cracked a smile. " What he had to say does not affect my driving."

"And what did he have to say?"

"You don't give up, do you?" Sam pulled the car into the college's main gates. " Which way?"

"Right then up," she told him. " And no, I don't give up."

For some reason, Sam felt like telling her. He didn't know why. She didn't know him or his family nor was she trustworthy but he had a burning desire to tell someone the secret that had been consuming him for the past week. " My brother's girlfriend has had a brain tumor. She is going to be dying within the day."

She looked so troubled and saddened by his words. It was too powerful looking to be fake empathy. " I'm so sorry for your brother."

"Why? You don't know him." Sam pulled up in front of Freemont Hall, the site of her classes.

She stepped out of the car, heaving her bulging backpack out of the space between the seat and the dashboard. " No, I don't, but it still sucks," she smiled at him. " Thanks for the ride."

" You're welcome." He watched her climb the steps, fingers brushing against the banister as she walked carefully in her heels. When she reached the doors of the building, he pulled off the shoulder of the road and began driving back to his house.

* * *

She was on oxygen, IV sticking out of her arm, thumb nestled in a clamp that measured her heart beat and blood pressure. The blankets were tight against her, still tucked into the corners of the bed, the color almost the same as her pale features.

Dean was tired of feeling like an idiot, standing outside her door, afraid to go in, and he took a deep breath before opening the door to her room. Her eyes immediately sprung open at the interruption of the near silence.

"Dean."

He smiled. " Hey." She scooted over on the bed so there was room for him to sit. " How are you feeling?"

"I've been better."

A strand of hair was sticking to her gleaming cheek and Dean reached up to pull it off her. " Do you have a fever?"

She nodded. That explained the sweat. " I have an infection."

Dean was almost afraid to ask. "Is it…serious?"

She didn't answer, staring past him. The oxygen whistled softly, the heart monitor beeped, and Dean realized he already had his answer.

"How did you find me?" she asked suddenly.

"I went to the motel…found your mom there."

"And she told you where I was?" She looked surprised and amused by the idea.

"Not really. It sort of slipped out of her."

"Ah." She lifted up the hand that didn't have the machines hooked to it, and wiped her forehead off.

"Do you want me to open a window or something?" Dean asked.

"They won't open. Could you loosen up the sheets maybe?"

Dean leaned over to pull the sheets out from under the mattress. She immediately shifted the blankets off her, sighing. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"I'm sorry you didn't know sooner."

It caught him off guard but he smiled at her, squeezing her hand." You couldn't help it."

"Still…" she trailed off, looking away from him, up at the abstract paining on the wall.

"Look at me," he said quietly.

She appeared to ignore him.

He grabbed her chin and lightly rotated her face towards him. Her eyes were wet.

"You're scared."

She nodded.

"I would be too."

"I just always knew it was coming but…" she shrugged. " Now that it's here, I want to live. I want to live so much."

Dean kissed her forehead. "You will."

"Maybe. But I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"It feels real this time. That this is the end."

"You're not going to die." His voice was forceful, commanding even, yet it was wavering.

Layla smiled weakly. " Not even you, Dean, with all your supernatural knowledge, can stop death."

"How do you know that you're dying? It's just an infection. You've had them before. You'll get over it again." Dean was angry though he didn't know why what she was saying was provoking such a reaction in him.

"It's not the infection that's going to kill me," Layla said quietly.

"What is, then?" Dean wanted, needed to know, for closure's sake.

"The tumor's gotten bigger. It will soon cut off the blood supply to my brain."

"But…how? I thought the radiation got rid of it."

"It only bought me more time, Dean. It was just enough time to…find you again."

He stroked her thumb, contemplating their history together. He remembered how ill he felt the first time he met her, legs shaking, unable to support his weight, and how he tried to remain upright and just not collapse onto Sam because he didn't want to look like a fool. He wished that she would be healed and then, the subsequent shame of seeing her face fall, losing hope, as he sat in the chair, watching the preacher's hands fall to land on him. He remembered guilt. He remembered bemoaning the fact he couldn't play God and save her, but yet it was Sam playing God that had saved him. He thought his actions were hypocritical and it was only until she visited their motel that he made peace with himself because she had forgiven him, without ever knowing the truth or needing to know it.

He thought back to the day he met her again, at the hospital in front of the snack machine. He tried to remember what he felt when he saw her. He was shocked but relieved. She meant redemption for his mistakes. She was someone he respected. She was someone he didn't want to fall in love with.

"You make it sound like you searched for me," Dean commented.

"I did."

Dean was surprised. " What do you mean?"

" The doctor who did my radiation, he…he didn't think it worked. He told me to go out and have some fun. Wrote me off as dying," she smiled slightly. " I realized that the only thing I wanted to do before I died was see you, see how you ended up."

" Thus you discovered my paper trial."

"Yeah. The last article I found was about the fire, when you killed that demon thing, and since a lot of the articles mentioned that town, I presumed you'd end up here. And you did."

"And you, being at the hospital the day I was there…?"

" That was just chance."

Dean didn't know what to say so he stayed silent. A thought entered his mind and he smiled at Layla who looked at him confused.

"What are you smiling about?" she asked softly.

"I was remembering what you told me when you left in Nebraska."

"About faith?" Dean nodded. " What about it?"

"Nothing. It's just interesting that you wanted to see me and here we are."

"And here we are…" Layla trailed off, looking down at the blanket that was wrapped around her hips. She seemed sad and before Dean could ask what was wrong, she looked up at him. " Promise me you'll take care of yourself when I'm gone?"

"God Damnit Layla, you're not going to die." Dean swore.

"Can you just do it?"

She looked so eager and sad and Dean decided it would be best to appease her. " You're not going to die, but sure, yeah, I'll take care of myself if…" he paused. " …if in the case that you die."

"That's all I ask." She sighed and leaned her head back against the pillow, tipping her head into the sunlight that had streamed across that portion of the bed. "Just curious, but why do you think I'm not going to die?"

"There are so many things you have yet to do in life," Dean answered.

"I've done them all of them that mattered," she looked directly at him and he knew that she was talking about seeing him again.

"Maybe…just, I don't think it's your time yet to go."

Her smile was a response to the hopeful glimpse in his eyes because she knew he was only fooling himself. " We've both known this day was coming for awhile now."

"Today is not it." Dean knew he was acting like a stubborn insolent child who believed that by willing something to be, it was, but he honestly didn't think she was dying. Besides all the machines and tubes hooked up to her and the thin layer of perspiration on her face, she looked healthy.

"Whatever you want to believe," Layla responded, shrugging apologetically. It relieved Dean to see her giving up trying to tell him. It wasn't going to happen. He knew it wouldn't.

"You're not going to die," he told her. It sounded like a warning and she took it as one.

"Why? You going to save me?" Her voice was sarcastic, fed up with their argument. She was sick of having to explain to him and him denying it, not accepting that she was going to die. She wanted to prepare him. She saw now that there was no way to.

"How can I save you?" Dean shot back, not knowing why he was yelling. There was too much tension in the air and no way to relieve it. " I can't reach in and take out your tumor!"

" You got rid of your heart condition."

"Oh, are you still pissed off over the fact that Roy chose me over you to heal?" Dean yelled back.

"No, I'm not," Layla screamed back. Her entire face had turned an infuriated tomato red and she was breathing heavily. "I'm pissed off that you got the chance and I didn't. I'm pissed off that I couldn't be healed. I'm pissed off that I don't know why he chose you and not me to heal. I'm pissed off that I can never he healed because you did something to him. I don't know what. I don't know how but after you, he was gone, and…" she stopped speaking, inhaling sharply and started coughing. It was a loud hoarse noise that hurt Dean's ears and he let go of his anger, leaning over to hit her on the back a few times to get her to stop coughing.

"Can you just tell me what happened?" she whispered, tears in her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

"I'm sorry…" He was sorry for yelling, sorry for not being able to tell her. She had every right to know but he didn't have the strength in him to tell her that it was he who had killed her. It was he who had stole the only chance she had or would ever have of living a full life.

"I wouldn't be mad."

He knew she wouldn't. She'd accept it like she always did, never fighting against the inevitable.

Layla sighed, realizing he had no intention of telling her. "Can you just tell me this…could Roy heal because of his faith in God?"

"No."

"Alright then." It was like watching a balloon deflate when a pin-sized hole was created in it. Everything looked fine for the first ten seconds, and then painfully slow, it would collapse. It was like the life that was still in Layla was leaving her, and her eyes turned dead. It scared Dean.

"Layla, what's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing." Her answer was monotone, eyes staring straight ahead, not looking at him. Dean noticed that her legs were pulled in close to her body, like she was trying to get into fetal position. Something about what he said bothered her. Dean didn't know what though.

Layla yawned, jaw dropping, tongue flexing as if she was a cat. " I'm sleepy," she announced.

Dean nodded reluctantly, seeing it was his cue to leave, and he leaned over and kissed her forehead. " I'll be here when you wake up," he told her.

"And if you're at work?" she responded.

Dean hadn't thought about work. " I'll be here."

She nodded and watched him walk out the door. She turned over on her side, shifting the pillow to fit under her head. Her fingers gripped the top of the pillow, palms flat against it, her blanket lying at her hips. Her eyes didn't close. She just stared out into space, at the wall. Tears fell and she never made a sound.

She didn't realize Dean was watching her from outside the door, peering through its window. He felt bad and felt an urge to return back to the room and comfort her. But this was something he wasn't supposed to be seeing and he remained glued to his spot. He now knew by instinct what had bothered her about what he had said. He was basically telling her that God didn't exist, that he didn't grant wishes or perform miracles. And for someone who was so invested in faith and trust in a God, who would soon be meeting him, it was terrifying. She was confused and feeling betrayed and it didn't help that she didn't feel well and he was being his usual asshole self.

Dean felt too much like a voyager, watching her cry, and he tore his eyes away from the sight, and took a walk down the hall to find a bathroom and a soda machine. He needed caffeine.

It took him fifteen minutes to get back to the wing Layla was in because the bathrooms there were out of order and the staircase was locked with no elevator in sight. The concession stands had been on the opposite end of Layla's room but he had returned victorious with a coke and a bag of sour cream chips.

Layla's mother was standing by the door, hand stretched wide, propped up against the wall, holding her body up. She looked out of breath, face pale, lips pursed together like she was angry or just concentrating.

Dean wasn't sure if he should talk to her or not. It wasn't like they were on speaking terms or even liked each other. But he did have to consider the fact that she was Layla's mother and it would be good to be friendly to her even if she didn't want him to be. " Why you out here instead of in there?" he asked, walking to her side.

The glare she gave him was murderous but Dean saw desperation and sadness written there as well. He felt a tingling sensation shoot down his spine like something bad was happening and he wasn't seeing it, and his eyes followed hers as they turned back to Layla's room. And he suddenly knew why he felt that way. Doctors surrounded Layla's bed, too many for him to get a clear view of his girlfriend. He couldn't see the machines or see what they were doing to know what was wrong with her, but the frantic pace that the doctors were swarming from place to place on the bedside was troubling in itself.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered, apologizing for his rudeness. Layla's mother didn't say anything to him or show any acknowledgement, other then grasping his hand and squeezing it. It was like, at that moment, they were bonded and he was forgiven.

The following minutes were tense, both on edge as they waited for some sign of what was happening and its ending. Finally, everything came to a still and the doctors began clearing out from around the bed. Dean pressed his nose to the glass, trying to figure out what was going on. His eyes glanced over to the heart monitor. The line was flat, no variation, a contrast to the falling weight in his throat. She was dead with no warning. He felt…he didn't know what he felt. He was in shock, numb, barely able to move out of the way when the doctors streamed out of the room so the door didn't hit him.

He heard a man talking to Layla's mother and he turned towards them sluggishly, feeling that he should also be listening.

"…Not much time," the doctor was finishing up his eulogy.

"So she died peacefully?" she whispered, words broken by the tears streaming down her face.

"She was already in the coma when it happened," the doctor verified.

"Alright," she sighed. " Thank you, doctor."

"You're welcome. I'm sorry for your loss." The doctor walked past her and her gaze shifted to Dean.

"This is your fault."

Dean was flabbergasted to say the least. Her daughter had just died and she was going to pick a petty meaningless fight with him. He could work with it though. He thought he was angry. No, he was angry with himself because the last thing that he had said to Layla involved arguing and him lying yet again. And he never told her that he loved her. " How is it mine?"

He was expecting her to mention Roy. She didn't. " You gave her that infection."

"What? How?"

"You slept with her even when you knew that she wasn't supposed to be seeing anyone because she was sick. How dare you…"

"Oh shut the fuck up," Dean yelled. " Layla is a grown women who doesn't need her mother's permission to decide what she will or will not do."

"Well, if you hadn't…"

"I didn't. I was all for watching movies. It was her idea. Don't make her out to be some fucking virginal saint…" Dean didn't finish his sentence, face snapping with the force of the slap Layla's mother gave him.

"Don't ever…" Dean didn't stick around to find out what else she was going to say. He didn't want to be the target of her shock and depression induced rage. He headed for the exit, taking a quick glance at his watch as he stalked through the halls. It was just past seven thirty, which was perfect, because he had an hour drive back to town and he needed to be at the club by nine.

It didn't hit him until he had walked out into the cool nighttime air and saw his father leaning against the hood of his truck, arms crossed, that she had died. She was gone. He breathed in a gulp of air, feeling his eyes and throat burning, trying to contain the tears and bile.

John didn't have to ask him what was wrong. Dean's expression and posture was enough and he walked over and hugged his son.

"It's going to be alright," John whispered soothingly, clutching Dean to him.

"I know…" His voice was level and John pulled away to take a look at Dean's face. Besides the harsh red of his cheek, his face was normal. He wasn't crying.

"You are allowed to cry," John told him.

"I don't feel like crying." His face had hardened up, eyes baring into his father's, lips pulled into a neutral expression. He looked like a soldier and that was what John feared. He was shutting off his emotions.

"Why not? You loved her…"

"I did. But she's dead now. Time to move on," Dean fished the keys out of his pocket. " I have to get going."

Raising Dean had taught John that the more cold Dean acted, the more he was hurting. It meant that Dean was devastated and sooner or later, he was going to crash and just crumble. " You don't have to be strong, you know," John yelled to his son who was walking to his car.

He didn't expect Dean to turn around and give him his answer. " But I do." He stuck the key in the door to unlock the car and hopped in, slamming the door behind in. John watched him rive the engine and peel out as he exited the parking lot. John only wished that Dean didn't crash the car on his way back home.

* * *

_End Chapter 8: Our Farewell_

* * *

* * *

_Never thought  
__This day would come so soon  
__We had no time to say goodbye  
__How can the world just carry on?  
__I feel so lost when you are not at my side  
__But there's nothing but silence now  
__Around the one I loved  
__Is this our farewell?_


	9. Attack

**An End  
**( or maybe just another beginning)

Sam eyed the closed door from down the hall, shoving his wet clothes into the dryer. He slammed the trap shut, sending an echo down the hall. It was still silent in the hall and Sam sighed, punching the button to turn the cycle on, and went back into the living room.

"He's still not moving," he informed his father after taking a seat on the couch and picking up his bowl of cereal. He spooned some of the Cheerios into his mouth and nearly gagged. They were soggy, having been submerged in the milk too long.

"He's allowed to sleep in," John pointed out, peering over the top of the newspaper.

"I know. I'm just…" Sam trailed off, not wanting to admit that he was worried about his brother. The twinkle in John's eyes told him that his father understood.

"We all are but give him a break. He got home at 4. He's probably physically exhausted."

"And emotionally…" Sam added.

John nodded in agreement. " That too. I heard he got wringed out pretty bad by Layla's mother at the hospital." He returned to reading the Sports section.

"She blamed Dean for killing Layla back when we healed him."

"She probably did it again." John turned the page.

"That bitch," Sam hissed. " She has no right to make Dean feel responsible. He shouldn't blame himself."

"Dean blames himself for everything he couldn't fix. It's just a part of who he is."

"It's your fault that he is that way," Sam said.

"I know." John didn't even look up when he said, eyes darting back and forth as he read.

" You know?" Sam said sarcastically.

"What do you want me to do, Sam? I've made mistakes. Dean's personality is a result of them. Is that what you want to hear?" John snapped.

It hadn't occurred to Sam that his father would be stressed out. But it made sense in an odd way. His father was also concerned about Dean. He just had a much less emotional way of showing it.

"I'm sorry," Sam apologized.

"It's fine."

"Still…he shouldn't blame himself for her death."

"You blamed yourself for Jess's death," John pointed out.

"No, I…"

John interrupted. "You threw your belongings in Dean's car and drove off into the sunset to get retribution. Only someone who blames themselves does that."

"True," Sam sighed. " But it really was my fault. She wouldn't have been attacked if she hadn't been with me."

"And Layla wouldn't have died yesterday if she hadn't met Dean."

Sam looked at his father confused. " What do you mean?"

"Simple. If you hadn't dragged Dean to that healing that day, Layla would have been chosen. Layla would have been healed and Layla would still be living."

"But…all those people would be dead…and so would Dean."

"Yes. But she would still be alive. The point is, Sam, that every action we make has unforeseen consequences. Jess died because she loved you. Layla died because Dean was there that day, and Mary, dead because of me."

Sam felt the sadness in his father' voice and sensed a circle had finally been completed. All of them had lost someone they loved. He felt connected at that moment to his father and also to his sleeping brother. "Layla died because I decided to be selfish and save Dean."

"Technically, yes, but there are too many degrees of separation between your decision and the decision that doomed Layla. Is it the demon that you were fighting that ended up putting Dean in the hospital's fault? Or is my fault for sending you both to that place to take out that particular demon."

Sam saw his point and felt relief wash over him. He didn't want to blame himself. " Is that what you meant the other day when Dean has a cursed life because I saved him?"

John shook his head. " Layla would have died regardless of him being cursed."

"Then what did you mean?" Sam asked.

John only smiled secretly at him, and he picked up the comics from the floor to read.

* * *

Dean felt like he had gotten drunk and hit by a car. His head was pounding, the light from the windows was too bright and cheerful, and his back felt pinched. A quick glance at the clock told him it was noon. He knew he should get up but he couldn't find the energy to sit up. So he just lay there, contemplating why he felt so shitty.

He had gotten off of work at two a.m., far too revved up to go home, and he had given into temptation and decided to drink and hit the dance floor. He left when the club closed, drove home, and crashed. He probably had had too much to drink, which explained the hung-over. But the general misery encompassing him…it came back to him instantly. Layla died. That explained it and he shut off the wave of sadness and anger before it could affect him and climbed out of bed, spurred on by the energy that came from avoiding something.

He was thankful to find the coffee already made, although probably stale, and he poured himself a cup. He dragged himself out to the living room and flopped down in the armchair opposite of his father.

"Sleep well?" Sam asked.

"Yeah."

"Do you want eggs or bacon or something to eat?"

Dean looked at his brother suspiciously. " Why are you being so nice?"

"No reason. I'm hungry. I was going to get up and make something. I wanted to know if you had any preferences." Sam's answer was too calm and too long. What it suggested annoyed Dean.

"No thanks. I'm still not awake yet," Dean said politely, taking another sip of his coffee. He could feel the caffeine dribbling through his system, electrifying every nerve in his body into awareness.

"Okay."

"Does anybody see the main section of the newspaper?" Dean asked.

"It's on the floor somewhere…" John replied.

Dean peered over his coffee cup at the floor. " Sam, it's right under your foot."

"Oh. That's nice to know." Sam didn't move his foot.

"Uh, Sam, I think that would be your cue to pick it up and give it to me."

" Seriously, Dean, there's nothing interesting going in the world or anything we would be interested in," Sam said.

"Give me the damn paper," Dean growled.

He caught the look that passed between his father and brother as Sam bent down to get the paper. " I'm not some fuckin' idiot. I know Layla's obituary is in there, " Dean reached over to snatch the paper out of Sam's hand. " Stop babying me. I'll be fine."

Sam looked sheepish and then shrugged, getting up to get that breakfast that he was discussing earlier. Dean flipped through the paper, paused for a second at the sight of Layla's picture, and continued on, flipping to the second to last page.

"Hey, Sam, did you see that article about all the teenagers that have gone missing in Kentucky?" Dean yelled out into the kitchen.

"Yeah. Why?"

"It sounds like something up our ally."

"It sounds like some psychopath who is either selling them on the sex market or kidnapping them, raping them, and then killing them."

"So what? If it's a demon, we kill it. If it's human, we still kill it. Everyone wins."

"Dean, we can't just kill a human being."

Dean walked into the kitchen and past his brother to set his coffee cup in the sink. " Yeah, we can." The way he said it was nonnegotiable. "I'm going to make the reservations for a motel."

"What?" Sam turned off the burner and moved the pan of bacon to the back of the stove. " Wait. Isn't this sort of quick?"

"Of course it is, but people are getting hurt. Tell me, do you want to have another girl get hurt because you want to stop and think this out?"

Dean was going for the guilt trip and it succeeded on a reluctant Sam. "No. I don't want that. But you are being too impulsive. What are you going do about your job? What about Layla's funeral?"

"I switched my schedule so I have the next two nights off and Layla's funeral wouldn't be for a few days. If we leave in a hour, we can get there by morning."

"Who said I was going to go with you?"

"What else will you do, Sam? Sit around the house and mope about how you have nothing to do?"

Sam tried to not take offense to Dean's comment. " I have research…"

"…which you can do at any time." Dean interrupted.

"Which I could be doing at any time but Dean, you're not exactly in the right mindset right now. You…"

"…I, what, Sam? Should I be upset and wallowing in self-pity? Should I be lying in bed all day, crying?"

"No. You are still grieving. I don't think it is the best time…"

"I am done grieving. I'd like to move on with my life now," Dean said.

Sam sighed. " Alright. Call. I'll go with you."

Dean gave him a huge smile. " Okay." He nearly skipped to the phone.

Sam turned back on the burner and set the pan of bacon on it. He noticed for the first time that John was standing right outside the kitchen and probably heard every word on their little dispute.

"Why does he want to do this?" Sam asked.

"He can't stay still. He needs to do something to express how he feels. Hunting is his life, his passion. So…" John trailed off as Dean came back in earshot.

" I got us reservations. We need to pack," Dean said.

Sam nodded. " Give me 15 minutes."

Dean walked down to the hall to his bedroom and Sam turned to his father. " Do you want the bacon?"

* * *

His eardrums hurt. Dean didn't seem to notice how loud the music was. He kept drumming on the steering wheel, head bopping lazily to the beat. The thermos of coffee with its open lid sloshed around in the cup holder and it was only time before it spilled.

Sam really wanted to yell. He didn't though. He was worried about picking a fight with Dean. It wasn't that Sam felt pity for his brother or wanted to baby him, which Dean was accusing him of. He just saw how badly Dean needed things to go his way. Dean was exhausted. The coffee and music was keeping him awake. His brother was also a control freak. He dominated every situation he walked into. He needed that normalcy.

However, it was normal for Sam to complain about the music, and he reached over to turn down the radio. " It's too loud," he told Dean.

"Oh. Sorry." Dean's eyes didn't leave the road. Sam found that odd and he peered closer. Dean's eyes were almost bug-eyed, red with irritation.

"Dean, I can drive. You need to sleep," Sam said softly.

"No. I'm good."

"Stop being stubborn and let me drive. You're just barely functioning."

"I'm fine," Dean hissed.

Sam pulled out his trump cards." You need to be rested if we're going to take out the demon. Plus, you don't want the car wrecked, do you?"

Dean didn't answer for a few minutes. Sam only got his answer when Dean pulled onto the shoulder of the road and after pulling the emergency brake, got out of the car with a slam of his door and marched over to Sam's side. Sam unbuckled his seatbelt and awkwardly switched to the driver side. By the time the speedometer had switched to saying a mile had passed, Dean was asleep, head flopped down, burrowing his chin into his chest. It would hurt like a bitch when he woke up, Sam knew, and so he leaned over, hitting the lever to recline the seat, and went back to driving.

It took almost six hours and about 10 miles off of Shelbyville, their destination, but Dean finally woke up, entering the living world with a jolt. He blinked a few times and sat straight up, hitting the button to move his seat into the upright position. The view outside the window was dark with neon lights of a strip mall and its various surrounding fast-food restaurants glowing far off in the distance below them.

"We'll be there in a few minutes," Sam told him.

"Alright. Do you need a bathroom break or a food break?"

"No. I stopped an hour ago. Did all that."

Dean was surprised. " And I slept through it all?"

"Yeah. There's food in the back, if you want it. It's probably cold though."

"Thanks." Dean was touched and he leaned into the back seat to grab the bag off the floor. He opened it to find curly fries from Arby's with a few packets of ketchup and a roast beef sandwich. It made him smile and he ripped open the packets, squirting them on the fries and on the bun.

"So where's our motel?"

Dean swallowed. " It's on West Street. It's off Main Street."

"And how do we get there?"

"Take the next exit…"

"Are you sure?"

"I looked at the maps before we went. I'm sure," Dean replied, staring out the window, munching on the remainder of his fries.

"What's the plan when we get there?"

Dean sighed. " Don't know yet. Poke around. See if it's human or demon and where it will most likely strike next."

"That's fine. I'm not going with you though. I need to rest."

"Alright."

Sam steered off of the highway and onto their exit, which took them to the Main Street. Dean watched passively as his brother went down the vacant street and ran the red light, turning right onto their street. The motel was the only thing lit up on the street and they pulled into a parking spot.

Dean shoved open the car door and got out, stretching his arms in the air and jogging in place to get some feeling back in his legs. He spotted the entrance, a white porch, and he walked up the stairs and into the motel lobby, slamming the door behind him. A girl, blowing a wad of bright pink bubblegum looked up at him from the magazine she was reading.

"What ya' want?"

"I have reservations."

She lazily pushed with her feet off the drawers and the chair rocketed to the back of her little office. She grabbed a book off of the desk and using the desk for leverage, pushed her way back. She opened it and flipped through it, then looked up at him.

"I take it you're a Winchester?"

"That's correct."

"I need your credit card."

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his Mastercard and flicked it across the counter.

She took it and with a groan, stood up, and moved from behind her desk and walked into a room marked Employees Only. In three minutes, she returned with his card, thrusting it into his outstretched hand.

" I need two keys," Dean told her.

She nodded and reached into her back jeans pocket to hand him two key cards.

"Thanks for the help," Dean said, pushing open the porch door and walked quickly out to the parking lot. Something about the girl made him uncomfortable. It wasn't demon-uncomfortable but more like facing someone who really didn't want anything to do with you.

Sam was sitting on the curb by the car, bags at his feet. His head was hung, like he had fallen asleep and Dean nudged him with the tip of his boot. " Wake up."

"I'm up," Sam mumbled, climbing to his feet. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and grabbed his bags off the ground. Dean grabbed his as well and darted around Sam to lead him to their room.

The rooms were better then what Dean was used to. The comforters were of flowers with pristine off-white sheets underneath them with downy pillows, and the bathroom was well lit and so clean that it gleamed.

Sam flopped down on the bed, dropping his bags next to him. He sighed, eyes closing blissfully.

"Sleep. I'm going out to one of the bars," Dean said.

Sam peered out of one eye to look at him. " To get drunk?"

"Research."

"And get drunk…" Sam added.

Dean shrugged. " Added benefit, maybe. Sleep well."

"Yeah. Have fun," Sam's eyes shut and Dean slipped out of the motel room.

Dean had chosen their motel for a particular reason. He had noticed that all the girls had been from the same school. The school was only a few blocks from their motel and Dean figured that if any skevy guy who was hurting the girls lived in the area, he would frequent the local bars and teen hangouts.

The bar was a dump, a falling-down wooden building, entitled " The Fox " with a neon cartoon fox plastered in the window. When he opened the door, he swore smoke billowed out of the building and that something had died earlier in the day there.

He looked around for anyone suspicious, someone who gave off weird vibes. All he saw were old women, dressed in black leather, with platinum blonde hair, skin sagging and stretched over their gaunt features. There were men as well but they looked like average blue-collar men, blowing off steam at the end of the day. He got the impression they were good fathers, people he wouldn't expect to be abducting teenage girls.

"What can I get for you?" the bartender asked him when he reached the bar.

"Nothing. I'm new to this area. I need to know where the teenagers around him hang out," Dean said smoothly.

The man narrowed his eyes, looking at him suspiciously.

"It's not what you think," Dean quickly added, fishing in his pocket for a fake ID. He showed it to the man. " I'm a cop down in Texas. One of the girls in my town was up here visiting her folks and she disappeared. I believe she was taken by the same person who has been taking all your kids. Anything you might know could just be the breakthrough we need to solve this case." Dean gave him his best cheesy smile to cement his argument.

The man's eyes softened and Dean knew the man was sold on him. " The kids left around here hang out at the skating rink uptown."

Dean nodded. " Could you give me directions?"

"Get back on Main, then turn on Pleasant. It'll be on your left. Go down it and turn left again onto Market. It's the building with all the cars in front of it and loud booming music."

"Thank you for your help, Sir," Dean gave a small discreet bow of the head.

"You're welcome."

Dean's nostrils were hurting from the bombardment of smoke and he left the building, breathing in heavily when he reached the outdoors and the cool night air. It felt like heaven and he began the trek up the hill to Main Street.

He was making the final turn onto Market Street when he heard something that made him stop and listen. It sounded like a couple was arguing off in the distance. He knew it shouldn't interest him but his instincts were telling him to check it out. He followed the noise, darting across the street towards the skating rink and behind it, where the overflowing dumpsters were and an empty gravel parking lot from a small closed restaurant. Dean crouched behind one of the thicker trees and took in the surroundings.

A car was in the parking lot, its high beams on, turning the girl's face, who stood in front of the car, a pale ghastly white. She was dressed in a miniskirt with a lilac jacket covering almost the entire skirt with its length. Her feet were in platform sandals and her stature and profuse use of makeup told Dean that she was somewhere around thirteen.

The car was old but it was a nice looking car. In Dean's opinion, it wasn't flashy enough to garner attention from the police and from adults, but would catch a kid's eye immediately because it was interesting to look at. The driver wore glasses and had a scruffy beard from not shaving for a few days. He looked to be in his late 20s and wore a black leather jacket.

"You sure you don't want a ride," the guy asked her.

"No. I don't want a ride," the girl replied, shielding her eyes with her hand.

"It's cold out there and it's a long walk to your house. Your feet must be killing you," he pointed out.

"I want to walk," the girl said firmly.

"I can't let you do that. It's dangerous for you to be out here alone," he shut off the engine of the car and opened the door to the car, not yet stepping out. Dean felt his muscles tensing, preparing for movement or a fight.

"With all due respect, Mr. Yager, I don't want a ride. I'll be fine."

He stepped out of the car and the girl unconsciously took a step back.

"Get in the car, April." It was less of a suggestion and now a order.

April looked scared and Dean moved from behind the garbage can, standing up, plan in mind.

" April, there you are," he said loudly, walking towards her. " Mom's been looking for you all over. Didn't you bring your cell with you?"

Dean prayed she would go along with it, that she would trust him. He was banking on that she found him attractive and thus wanted to do whatever he suggested.

"I forgot it," she mumbled, hanging her head.

"Come on, let's get you home, sis." Dean lightly grabbed her arm and led her out from behind the skating rink and onto the street. It was only when they were back on Main Street did Dean turn around and face her.

"I'm sorry for not introducing myself sooner. I'm Dean."

"April." She looked wary of him. Dean was glad. It meant that the girl had some common sense.

"Look, April, I need to know who that guy was and his relation to you."

"Why?"

Dean smiled at her. " I'm a cop. What he did was wrong."

"He just wanted me to be safe."

"He scared you. That's not right."

"True." She looked down, ashamed.

"How do you know him?"

"He's my math teacher."

Dean felt the pieces of a puzzle fitting together in his mind. " Did you know any of the girls who have been kidnapped?"

"A few."

"How did you know them?" Dean asked.

"We had classes together."

Dean tried not to smile, feeling victory so close to him. " Math, right?"

She nodded.

"I want you to avoid him. He's dangerous."

She gazed up at him. " I can do that."

"Do you want ice cream?" Dean asked her. He was feeling nice, feeling like he should reward her for solving the case for him.

"I don't know if I can trust you," she replied.

Dean hid his surprise. " Why is that?"

"You're a cop but you don't have a badge or uniform."

She had a point and Dean chuckled, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a $20 bill. " Go buy some for yourself and get a cab home."

"Will do," she smiled at him. " Thank you."

"You're welcome." Dean watched her go and turned in the other direction to walk back down to their motel room.

Sam was awake when he returned to their room, lying on his stomach on the bed, watching TV. "What'd you find?" he asked, eyes not straying from the football game.

"I have an idea on who did it. We're going to break into his house and see if we can find anything to convict him."

It amused Sam that Dean said it like there was no other option, that he was just to follow and not question the legality and safety of the plan. " And are you positive that you have the right guy?"

"No. But it doesn't matter. Something about him is creepy."

Dean was acting more reckless and flippant that he usually was but Sam decided to honor his request anyway, though he felt it was a poor idea. " Fine. Do you have the address?"

"I'll get it right now," Dean walked over to the dresser between their beds and opened the drawer. Like he had thought, a bible and a phone book lay in there. He pulled out the phone book and flipped to the Ys.

"What's his last name?" Sam asked.

"Yager."

"That's a fairly common last name."

Dean didn't answer him.

"How many?" Sam asked.

"Twenty-three." Dean did nothing to hide his disappointment.

"So what are we going to do now?"

Dean set the phone book back in the drawer and shoved it shut. " We're going to his house."

"You don't know which one he is," Sam replied, watching Dean stand up and walk over to the bag they kept their guns and knives.

"There's a Yager who lives near here. He must be it," Dean slid the gun in the waistband of his jeans and pulled his shirt down to cover it.

"What if he's not?" Sam reached down to grab his shoes.

"Then he's not."

"Dean, we can't break into someone's house and violate their privacy."

"We've done it a thousand times before," Dean was heading for the door and Sam dove across the bed to get between the door and Dean.

" Dean. You need to stop and think about this for a second," Sam told his brother. " We broke into their houses because we thought they had done something wrong. We don't know if this guy has done anything other then that he shares the last name of some suspicious guy you met. Besides, if we are wrong and we get caught, we're going to jail. In case you don't remember, you just got off of serving jail time. Do you want another shot at it?"

"Move, Sam."

Sam didn't budge. He stared down his brother. Dean had sounded angry but Sam got more of a feeling of desperation. The hunt was something Dean needed. The hunt was what was keeping Dean from breaking down.

"You need to deal with her death sometime," Sam said softly.

Dean blinked, caught off guard by his statement. " I'll deal with it after I kill that monster."

"You're going to get yourself killed, or worse, incarcerated, if you keep being so cavalier about hunting."

"Would it really matter if I did?" Dean answered. He took Sam's stunned silence to his advantage and shoved his brother out of the way. He unlocked the door and stepped out. " Get your shoes on. We're leaving."

"What? I'm not going with you."

"You don't want me to do something stupid, Sammy, now, do you?" Dean called from the parking lot. Sam glowered at him and sat back down on the bed, sliding his feet into his tied sneakers.

Dean was pacing when Sam emerged, anxious to go. The shadows hitting his face made him look possessed and Sam felt fear. He was scared about what was going to happen on the hunt. He wasn't scared for Dean but for the Yager man. He feared that even if the man was completely innocent, Dean was going to go off on him just because he was there.

He wished he could stop Dean. But Dean was already stalking through the streets, intent only on one purpose. No amount of talking would convince Dean otherwise and Sam didn't think that he could physically stop his brother. He had the weight and height advantage but Dean was the better fighter and was too aware of his surroundings to be taken down by a surprise attack. All Sam could do was to follow him and hope that Dean had a better grasp on himself and his sanity then Sam thought he did.

Dean was stopped in front of him, putting on black gloves and repositioning his gun and flashlight for faster access. " Go to the back. I'll take the front."

"We should stick together," Sam asked.

"No one's home. We're fine."

There was no car in the driveway and no garage that Sam could see. He sighed, realizing Dean was right, and he had no other excuse to keep him close to Dean.

"Keep it discreet. There's too many neighbors," Sam hissed, moving past his brother.

Dean waved it off carelessly and Sam hopped over the fence into the back yard. The grass was overgrown and there appeared to be no signs of anyone using it on a regular basis. Sam wondered if the guy was single and childless.

The back door was ajar and Sam pushed on it to open. It opened three inches and stopped with a jolt. It had a chain lock on it. Sam slid his hand in between the door and the wall, and pushed up hard, trying to get it to unlatch. He succeeded on his second try and he stepped into the house, replacing the chain on the door.

He was in a kitchen. It was furnished nicely but not overblown. If the guy was a teacher, it was the right price range for his budget. Sam moved out of the kitchen and into the living room. The front door was there but no Dean. Sam saw a short corridor off the living room and he decided to investigate. Nothing of interest was in the bathroom but he found Dean in the only other room, the bedroom, shifting through drawers frantically with his flashlight.

"What are you looking for?" Sam asked.

"Somethin'," Dean responded, pulling out a stack of notebooks. He set them on the ground and took the first one, flipping through it. He didn't find anything and he threw it back in the drawer. " His closet is locked. I need you to get into it."

"Why? He'll know someone was here if it's destroyed."

Dean looked up at him. " What guy locks his closet?"

"Good point," Sam walked over to the closet and yanked on the door. It was locked, not just stuck. "Do you bring a screwdriver?"

He didn't expect Dean to toss him the flashlight, screwdriver attached to it by a rubber band. He took the screwdriver off and threw the flashlight back to Dean. Dean went back to flipping through the notebooks while Sam worked on taking the hinges off the door.

"I found something," Dean announced.

Sam was almost finished and was reluctant to leave his work, but he put the screwdriver down and walked over to look over Dean's shoulder. It was definitively evidence. There were Polaroid pictures stapled into the notebook of girls smiling together, names labeling beneath them. Sam recognized the names as the girls who had gone missing.

"You were right," Sam whispered.

"When am I not?"

Sam ignored the jibe. " Are there any more?"

"Like pictures of a murder scene or him hurting them? No."

Sam nodded. " Do you want me to still get into the closet?"

"Yeah."

Sam walked back to the closet and unscrewed the last bolt on the bottom hinge. He maneuvered the door so it didn't fall and leaned it against the wall. It was then that he actually looked into the closet.

There was a girl in there, mouth taped, limbs taped to a chair that was taped to the wall and the floor. Sam rushed in, ripping the tape off her mouth.

"Are you hurt?" he asked her, falling to his knees to undo the tape that bound her legs to the chair.

"No." Her voice was soft, weak, and Sam freed her feet.

"Good. We're going to get you out of here," he told her, beginning on her arms.

"Okay."

"So what's your name?" Sam heard Dean say.

"Marcia."

"Marcia. That's a pretty name. How long have you been in there for?"

" I don't know."

Sam got the last of the tape off of her and he offered her his hand to help her stand. She took it. " Marcia, we're…"

There was a loud bang from down the hall and Sam stopped talking, head flying up to look. Dean and Sam both drew their guns, and Dean motioned with his chin for Marcia to get back into the closet.

There was whistling and the noise of steps coming closer to them. Dean went for the closet door, propping it up against the entrance, and darted to the other side of the room, directly opposite of it. He crouched, hiding behind a desk that held a computer and printer. Sam hid on the side of the bed that didn't face the doorway.

Sam watched the light from the hall creep into the dark room and socked feet move across the floor into the room and to the closet. He could see vaguely a hand going for a light switch and Sam aimed the gun.

The light turned on and Mr. Yager saw the door. " What the…?"

Dean fired his weapon twice, hitting the man in the right arm and left leg. Blood sprayed everywhere and Sam wondered why Dean had missed the target so badly. None of those shots would kill the man. It then dawned on Sam what Dean was doing and he moved from his hiding place.

"What were you going to do with her?" Dean asked, walking around the man who was lying flat on the floor to come to stand at his head.

The man's body twitched and he climbed to his feet. Dean let him, eyeing him with a malicious smile.

"Don't, Dean," Sam yelled.

Dean only smiled at him as the man charged him, and Dean sidestepped him, kicking the man's good leg from underneath him and punching him hard in the stomach.

"Stop playing with him," Sam ordered.

"What are you going to do to stop me, Sammy?" Dean asked.

Sam wasn't planning on doing anything but Dean didn't need to know that. He walked up to Dean, stopping only a few inches from his face. " Just kill him. He doesn't deserve to suffer."

"Oh, I think he does. He kidnaps, rapes, and kills little kids. He destroys their families lives and that girl in the closet is never going to be the same. She is going to be haunted with this for the rest of her life. Death isn't good enough for him."

Sam began to doubt that Dean's passion on making the man suffer had anything to do with his guilt and depression. "He's a human being."

"He's a demon for all I'm concerned," Dean mumbled, aiming the gun at Yager as he tried to move. He pulled the trigger, shooting him in the back of the neck. His body went limp. "Happy?"

"Yeah." Sam could hear sirens in the distance. " We have to get out of here."

"You talk to the girl. I'll get our stuff."

As Dean picked up the flashlights and shoved the notebooks back in the drawer, Sam went over to the closet. The door had been removed and he realized that Marcia had seen the whole thing.

"We're going to go now. Don't tell them that we were here, alright?" he told her.

She nodded, eyes wide still with fright.

"Have a nice life, kid," he smiled at her and ran out of the bedroom and into the kitchen to the back door. He went into the backyard, jumped the fence, and ran down the street. Dean was waiting for him on the corner.

"That was fun," Dean commented as they started walking back to the motel.

"You shouldn't have done that."

Dean didn't respond.

"It's not…"

Dean interrupted. "I don't want to talk about it."

Sam sensed that it was dawning on Dean about what he had done and he was beginning to feel guilt. Dean had crossed a line and he knew it. Sam knew he couldn't let up.

"We need to talk about it."

"Make me."

Sam rolled his eyes at the childishness. "You need to get your act together. You can't go out and hunt just to torture something because you're too macho to admit you have feelings and that her death is bothering you."

"And you were much better when Jess died?" Dean shot back.

"What?"

Dean turned around to face Sam but kept walking. " The minute the police got done questioning you about what happened, you jumped in the car and we went after a demon. You never talked about her. You never cried over her. You never got angry at anything or anyone."

"I cried."

"Bull. You didn't even cry when you thought I was asleep."

"I guess you missed it."

"I guess," Dean shrugged, turning back around to walk the right way. " I have my ways of dealing. You have yours."

" My way doesn't involve killing someone."

They were at the motel and Dean swiped his card. " His life was no big loss to the world."

" You should have let the authorities deal with him."

Dean threw his wallet, car keys, and motel key on the nightstand when he walked in. Sam sat down on the bed, removing his sneakers.

" He wouldn't have gotten what he deserved," Dean answered.

"Still…we shouldn't have gone after him. You knew from the second you saw that article that it had nothing to do with a demon or sprit. That is the only reason that you wanted to do this case so bad."

"Do you really think that I would do that?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

Dean seemed unaffected and he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. It was almost morning and Sam was feeling too exhausted and lazy to get ready for bed. He climbed to the opening between his sheets and slid in. It was warm and the pillow was soft against his cheek.

He heard the click of a lamp shutting off and saw Dean's blurred figure getting in the other bed.

" 'Night."

" ' Night. "

_

* * *

_

End Chapter 9: Attack

* * *

I won't suffer, be broken, get tired, or wasted  
Surrender to nothing, or give up what I  
Started and stop it, from end to beginning  
A new day is coming, and I am finally free

_I would have kept you, forever, but we had to sever  
It ended for both of us, faster than a  
Kill off this thinking, it's starting to sink in  
I'm losing control now, and without you I can finally see  
Fight!_


End file.
